“Oh—­the dinner!”

It seemed she had forgotten it.

“Robin comes first,” she said firmly, after a moment of silence.

And she sat up that night in an arm-chair by the nursery fire, ministering at intervals to the child, who seemed impressed and heartened in his coughings by his mother’s presence.

On the following day she was rather tired, the cough was not abated, and when Dion came back from business he learnt that she had telegraphed to Beattie to give up the dinner.  He was very much disappointed.  But she did really look tired; Robin’s cough was audible in the quiet house; the telegram had gone, and of course there was nothing more to be done.  Dion did not even express his disappointment; but he begged Rosamund to go very early to bed, and offered to sleep in a separate room if his return late was likely to disturb her.  She agreed that, perhaps, that would be best.  So, at about eleven-thirty that night, Dion made his way to their spare room, walking tentatively lest a board should creak and awaken Rosamund.

Everybody had missed her and had made inquiries about her, except Mrs. Clarke and Daventry.  The latter had not mentioned her in Dion’s hearing.  But he was very busy with his guests.  Mrs. Clarke had apparently not known that Rosamund had been expected at the dinner, for when Dion, who had sat next her, had said something about the unfortunate reason for Rosamund’s absence, Mrs. Clarke had seemed sincerely surprised.

“But I thought your wife had quite given up going out since her child was born?” she had said.

“Oh no.  She goes out sometimes.”

“I had no idea she did.  But now I shall begin to be disappointed and to feel I’ve missed something.  You shouldn’t have told me.”

It was quite gravely and naturally said.  As he went into the spare room, Dion remembered the exact tone of Mrs. Clarke’s husky voice in speaking it, the exact expression in her eyes.  They were strange eyes, he thought, unlike any other eyes he had seen.  In them there was often a look that seemed both intent and remote.  Their gaze was very direct but it was not piercing.  There was melancholy in the eyes but there was no demand for sympathy.  When Dion thought of the expression in Rosamund’s eyes he realized how far from happiness, and even from serenity, Mrs. Clarke must be, and he could not help pitying her.  Yet she never posed as une femme incomprise, or indeed as anything.  She was absolutely simple and natural.  He had enjoyed talking to her.  Despite her gravity she was, he thought, excellent company, a really interesting woman and strongly individual.  She seemed totally devoid of the little tiresomenesses belonging to many woman—­tiresomenesses which spring out of vanity and affectation, the desire of possession, the uneasy wish to “cut out” publicly other women.  Mrs. Clarke would surely never “manage” a man.  If she held a man it would be with the listless and yet imperative grip of Stamboul.  The man might go if he would, but—­would he want to go?