Then his mind reverted to Mrs. Mount, and the strange bits of the conversation he had heard on the hill.  He was not one to suspect anybody positively.  He was timid of fixing a suspicion.  It hovered indefinitely, and clouded people, without stirring him to any resolve.  Still the attentions of the lady toward Richard were queer.  He endeavoured to imagine they were in the nature of things, because Richard was so handsome that any woman must take to him.  “But he’s married,” said Ripton, “and he mustn’t go near these people if he’s married.”  Not a high morality, perhaps better than none at all:  better for the world were it practised more.  He thought of Richard along with that sparkling dame, alone with her.  The adorable beauty of his dear bride, her pure heavenly face, swam before him.  Thinking of her, he lost sight of the mignonne who had made him giddy.

He walked to Richard’s hotel, and up and down the street there, hoping every minute to hear his step; sometimes fancying he might have returned and gone to bed.  Two o’clock struck.  Ripton could not go away.  He was sure he should not sleep if he did.  At last the cold sent him homeward, and leaving the street, on the moonlight side of Piccadilly he met his friend patrolling with his head up and that swing of the feet proper to men who are chanting verses.

“Old Rip!” cried Richard, cheerily.  “What on earth are you doing here at this hour of the morning?”

Ripton muttered of his pleasure at meeting him.  “I wanted to shake your hand before I went home.”

Richard smiled on him in an amused kindly way.  “That all?  You may shake my hand any day, like a true man as you are, old Rip!  I’ve been speaking about you.  Do you know, that—­Mrs. Mount—­never saw you all the time at Richmond, or in the boat!”

“Oh!” Ripton said, well assured that he was a dwarf “you saw her safe home?”

“Yes.  I’ve been there for the last couple of hours—­talking.  She talks capitally:  she’s wonderfully clever.  She’s very like a man, only much nicer.  I like her.”

“But, Richard, excuse me—­I’m sure I don’t mean to offend you—­but now you’re married...perhaps you couldn’t help seeing her home, but I think you really indeed oughtn’t to have gone upstairs.”

Ripton delivered this opinion with a modest impressiveness.

“What do you mean?” said Richard.  “You don’t suppose I care for any woman but my little darling down there.”  He laughed.

“No; of course not.  That’s absurd.  What I mean is, that people perhaps will—­you know, they do—­they say all manner of things, and that makes unhappiness; and I do wish you were going home to-morrow, Ricky.  I mean, to your dear wife.”  Ripton blushed and looked away as he spoke.

The hero gave one of his scornful glances.  “So you’re anxious about my reputation.  I hate that way of looking on women.  Because they have been once misled—­look how much weaker they are!—­because the world has given them an ill fame, you would treat them as contagious and keep away from them for the sake of your character!