- Yours as ever, violet Wright.

At the first reading this letter filled him with anger.  To be wooed by a very pretty woman is pleasant even to the most austere of married men (and never again trust the one who denies it), but to be wooed with a very dangerous threat mixed up with the wooing is no such pleasant experience.  And it was no empty threat.  Violet was a woman who prided herself upon being as good as her word.  She had laughingly said with her accustomed frankness upon one occasion that it was her sole remaining virtue.  If he did not go to Mariani’s, she would certainly come to Woking.  He shuddered to think of Maude being annoyed by her.  It was one thing to speak in a general way to his wife of prematrimonial experiences, and it was another to have this woman forcing herself upon her and making a scene.  The idea was so vulgar.  The sweet, pure atmosphere of The Lindens would never be the same again.

No, there was no getting out of it.  He must go to Mariani’s.  He was sufficiently master of himself to know that no harm could come of that.  His absolute love for his wife shielded him from all danger.  The very thought of infidelity nauseated him.  And then, as the idea became more familiar to him, other emotions succeeded that of anger.  There was an audacity about his old flame, a spirit and devilment, which appealed to his sporting instincts.  Besides, it was complimentary to him, and flattering to his masculine vanity, that she should not give him up without a struggle.  Merely as a friend it would not be disagreeable to see her again.  Before he had reached Clapham Junction his anger had departed, and by the time that he arrived at Waterloo he was surprised to find himself looking forward to the interview.

Mariani’s is a quiet restaurant, famous for its lachryma christi spumante, and situated in the network of sombre streets between Drury Lane and Covent Garden.  The fact of its being in a by-street was not unfavourable to its particular class of business.  Its customers were very free from the modern vice of self-advertisement, and would even take some trouble to avoid publicity.  Nor were they gregarious or luxurious in their tastes.  A small, simple apartment was usually more to their taste than a crowded salon, and they were even prepared to pay a higher sum for it.

It was five minutes to four when Frank arrived, and the lady had not yet appeared.  He stood near the door and waited.  Presently a hansom rattled into the narrow street, and there she sat framed in its concavity.  A pretty woman never looks prettier than in a hansom, with the shadows behind to give their Rembrandt effect to the face in front.  She raised a yellow kid hand, and flashed a smile at him.

‘Just the same as ever,’ said she, as he handed her down.

‘So are you.’

’So glad you think so.  I am afraid I can’t quite agree with you.  Thirty-four yesterday.  It’s simply awful.  Thank you, I have some change.  All right, cabby.  Well, have you got a room?’