He heard a murmur of skirts beside him, and the Marchioness Manson fluttered out of the drawing-room window.  As usual, she was extraordinarily festooned and bedizened, with a limp Leghorn hat anchored to her head by many windings of faded gauze, and a little black velvet parasol on a carved ivory handle absurdly balanced over her much larger hatbrim.

“My dear Newland, I had no idea that you and May had arrived!  You yourself came only yesterday, you say?  Ah, business—­business—­professional duties . . .  I understand.  Many husbands, I know, find it impossible to join their wives here except for the week-end.”  She cocked her head on one side and languished at him through screwed-up eyes.  “But marriage is one long sacrifice, as I used often to remind my Ellen—­”

Archer’s heart stopped with the queer jerk which it had given once before, and which seemed suddenly to slam a door between himself and the outer world; but this break of continuity must have been of the briefest, for he presently heard Medora answering a question he had apparently found voice to put.

“No, I am not staying here, but with the Blenkers, in their delicious solitude at Portsmouth.  Beaufort was kind enough to send his famous trotters for me this morning, so that I might have at least a glimpse of one of Regina’s garden-parties; but this evening I go back to rural life.  The Blenkers, dear original beings, have hired a primitive old farm-house at Portsmouth where they gather about them representative people . . .”  She drooped slightly beneath her protecting brim, and added with a faint blush:  “This week Dr. Agathon Carver is holding a series of Inner Thought meetings there.  A contrast indeed to this gay scene of worldly pleasure—­ but then I have always lived on contrasts!  To me the only death is monotony.  I always say to Ellen:  Beware of monotony; it’s the mother of all the deadly sins.  But my poor child is going through a phase of exaltation, of abhorrence of the world.  You know, I suppose, that she has declined all invitations to stay at Newport, even with her grandmother Mingott?  I could hardly persuade her to come with me to the Blenkers’, if you will believe it!  The life she leads is morbid, unnatural.  Ah, if she had only listened to me when it was still possible . . .  When the door was still open . . .  But shall we go down and watch this absorbing match?  I hear your May is one of the competitors.”

Strolling toward them from the tent Beaufort advanced over the lawn, tall, heavy, too tightly buttoned into a London frock-coat, with one of his own orchids in its buttonhole.  Archer, who had not seen him for two or three months, was struck by the change in his appearance.  In the hot summer light his floridness seemed heavy and bloated, and but for his erect square-shouldered walk he would have looked like an over-fed and over-dressed old man.