“Why do you say poor Beadon Clarke?” asked Dion abruptly.

That day he was at a great parting of the ways.  He was concentrated upon himself and his own decision, so concentrated that the conventions meant little to him.  He was totally unaware of the bruskness of such a question asked of a woman whom he had never seen before.

“One pities a thoroughly good fellow who does a thoroughly foolish thing.  It was a very, very foolish thing to do to attack Cynthia.”

“I was in court during part of the trial.”

“Well, then, you know how foolish it was.  Some people can’t be attacked with impunity.”

The inflexion of Lady Ingleton’s voice at that moment made Dion think of Mrs. Chetwinde.  Once or twice Mrs. Chetwinde’s voice had sounded almost exactly like that when she had spoken of Mrs. Clarke.

“Especially people who are innocent,” he said.

“Naturally, as Cynthia was.  Beadon Clarke made a terrible mistake, poor fellow.”

When Dion got up to go she again alluded to his staying on at Buyukderer, with an “if” attached to the allusion, and her dark eyes, which looked like an Italian’s, rested upon him with a soft, but very intelligent, scrutiny.  He had an odd feeling that she had taken a liking to him, and yet that she did not wish him to stay on in Buyukderer.

“I don’t quite know what I am going to do,” he said.

As he spoke the hideous freedom of his empty life seemed to gather itself together, and to flow stealthily upon him like a filthy wave bearing refuse upon its surface.

“I’m a free agent,” he added, looking hard at Lady Ingleton.  “I have no ties.”

He shook her hand and went away.

That evening she said to her husband: 

“I have felt sorry for myself occasionally, and for other people in my Christian moments, but I have never in the past felt so sorry for any one as I feel now for Mr. Leith.”

“Because of the tragedy which has marred his life?”

“It isn’t only that.  He’s on the edge of so much.”

“You don’t mean——?”

Sir Carey paused.

“No, no,” Lady Ingleton said, almost impatiently.  “Life hasn’t done with that man yet.  I could almost find it in my heart to wish it had.  Shall we take him to Brusa on the yacht?  That would advertise our acquaintance with him to all the gossips on the Bosporus.  I promised Cynthia I would throw my mantle over him.”

“I’m always ready for a visit to your only rival,” said Sir Carey.

“La Mosquee Verte!  I’ll think about it.  We might go for three or four days.”

Her warm voice sounded rather reluctant; yet her husband knew that she wished to go.

“It would be an excellent way of showing your mantle to the gossips,” he remarked.  “But you always think of excellent ways.”

Two days later the Embassy yacht, the “Leyla,” having on board Sir Carey and Lady Ingleton, Mrs. Clarke, Cyril Vane, Dion, and Turkish Jane, the doyenne of the Pekinese, sailed for Mudania on the sea of Marmora, which is the Port of Brusa.