Worthington lifted inquiring eyebrows but evidently hesitated to speak just then.

“It’s from Mrs. Clarke.”

“Beastly of her!” tipped out Worthington.  “What—­she say?”

“Just wishes me well.”

And Dion stuck the telegram back into the flimsy envelope.

When he looked at it again that night he thought the woman from Stamboul was a very forgiving woman.  Almost he wished that she were less forgiving.  She made him now, she had made him in days gone by, feel as if he had behaved to her almost badly, like a bit of a brute.  Of course that wasn’t true.  If he hadn’t been married, no doubt they might have been good friends.  As things were, friendship between them was impossible.  He did not long for friendship with Mrs. Clarke.  His life was full.  There was no room in it for her.  But he slightly regretted that he had met her, and he regretted more that she had wished to know Rosamund and him better than Rosamund had wished.  He kept her telegram, with the rest of the telegrams he had received on his departure; now and then he looked at it, and wondered whether its wording was not the least bit indelicate.  It would surely have been wiser if Mrs. Clarke had omitted the opening six words.  They conveyed a reproach; they conveyed, too, a curious suggestion of will power, of quiet persistence.  When he read them Dion seemed to feel the touch—­or the grip—­of Stamboul, listless apparently, yet not easily to be evaded or got rid of.

That telegram caused him to wonder whether he had made a really strong impression upon Mrs. Clarke, such as he had not suspected till now, whether she had not, perhaps, liked him a good deal more than she liked most people.  “May Allah have you and all brave men in His hand.”  Worthington would have been glad to have had that message.  Dion had discovered that Worthington was half in love with Mrs. Clarke.  He chaffed Dion about Mrs. Clarke’s telegram with a rather persistent gaiety which did not hide a faint, semi-humorous jealousy.  One day he even said, “To him that hath shall be given.  It’s so like a woman to sent her word of encouragement to the man who’s got a wife to encourage him, and to leave the poor beggar who’s got no one out in the cold.  It’s a cruel world, and three-quarters of the cruelty in it is the production of women.”  He spoke with a smile, and the argument which followed was not serious.  They laughed and bantered each other, but Dion understood that Worthington really envied him because Mrs. Clarke had thought of him at the moment of departure.  Perhaps he had been rather stupid in letting Worthington know about her telegram.  But Worthington had been watching him; he had had the feeling that Worthington had guessed whom the telegram was from.  The matter was of no importance.  If Mrs. Clarke had cared for him, or if he had cared for her, he would have kept her message secret; as they were merely acquaintances who no longer met each other, her good wishes from a distance meant very little, merely a kindly thought, for which he was grateful and about which no mystery need be made.