“After this,” Mr. Mangan sighed, “it will be hard to get back to the austere life of a Pall Mall club!”

Seaman, very early in the evening, pleaded an extraordinary sleepiness and retired, leaving his host and Mangan alone over the port.  Dominey, although an attentive host, seemed a little abstracted.  Even Mr. Mangan, who was not an observant man, was conscious that a certain hardness, almost arrogance of speech and manner, seemed temporarily to have left his patron.

“I can’t tell you, Sir Everard,” he said, as he sipped his first glass of wine, “what a pleasure it is to me to see, as it were, this recrudescence of an old family.  If I might be allowed to say so, there’s only one thing necessary to round the whole business off, as it were.”

“And that?” Dominey asked unthinkingly.

“The return of Lady Dominey to health.  I was one of the few, you may remember, privileged to make her acquaintance at the time of your marriage.”

“I paid a visit this morning,” Dominey said, “to the doctor who has been in attendance upon her since her marriage.  He agrees with me that there is no reason why Lady Dominey should not, in course of time, be restored to perfect health.”

“I take the liberty of finishing my glass to that hope, Sir Everard,” the lawyer murmured.

Both glasses were set down empty, only the stem of Dominey’s was snapped in two.  Mr. Mangan expressed his polite regrets.

“This old glass,” he murmured, looking at his own admiringly, “becomes very fragile.”

Dominey did not answer.  His brain had served him a strange trick.  In the shadows of the room he had fancied that he could see Stephanie Eiderstrom holding out her arms, calling to him to fulfill the pledges of long ago, and behind her—­

“Have you ever been in love, Mangan?” Dominey asked his companion.

“I, sir?  Well, I’m not sure,” the man of the world replied, a little startled by the abruptness of the question.  “It’s an old-fashioned way of looking at things now, isn’t it?”

Dominey relapsed into thoughtfulness.

“I suppose so,” he admitted.

That night a storm rolled up from somewhere across that grey waste of waters, a storm heralded by a wind which came booming over the marshes, shaking the latticed windows of Dominey Place, shrieking and wailing amongst its chimneys and around its many corners.  Black clouds leaned over the land, and drenching streams of rain dashed against the loose-framed sashes of the windows.  Dominey lit the tall candles in his bedroom, fastened a dressing-gown around him, threw himself into an easy-chair, and, fixing an electric reading lamp by his side, tried to read.  Very soon the book slipped from his fingers.  He became suddenly tense and watchful.  His eyes counted one by one the panels in the wall by the left-hand side of the bed.  The familiar click was twice repeated.  For a moment a dark space appeared.  Then a woman, stooping low, glided into the room.  She came slowly towards him, drawn like a moth towards that semicircle of candle.  Her hair hung down her back like a girl’s, and the white dressing-gown which floated diaphanously about her was unexpectedly reminiscent of Bond Street.