When Barfoot made his next evening call Rhoda did not appear. He sat for some time in pleasant talk with his cousin, no reference whatever being made to Miss Nunn; then at length, beginning to fear that he would not see her, he inquired after her health. Miss Nunn was very well, answered the hostess, smiling.

‘Not at home this evening?’

‘Busy with some kind of study, I think.’

Plainly, the difference between these women had come to a happy end, as Barfoot foresaw that it would. He thought it better to make no mention of his meeting with Rhoda in the gardens.

‘That was a very unpleasant affair that I saw your name connected with last week,’ he said presently.

‘It made me very miserable — ill indeed for a day or two.’

‘That was why you couldn’t see me?’

‘Yes.’

‘But in your reply to my note you made no mention of the circumstances.’

Miss Barfoot kept silence; frowning slightly, she looked at the fire near which they were both sitting, for the weather had become very cold.

‘No doubt,’ pursued Everard, glancing at her, ‘you refrained out of delicacy — on my account, I mean.’

‘Need we talk of it?’

‘For a moment, please. You are very friendly with me nowadays, but I suppose your estimate of my character remains very much the same as years ago?’

‘What is the use of such questions?’

‘I ask for a distinct purpose. You can’t regard me with any respect?’

‘To tell you the truth, Everard, I know nothing about you. I have no wish to revive disagreeable memories, and I think it quite possible that you may be worthy of respect.’

‘So far so good. Now, in justice, please answer me another question. How have you spoken of me to Miss Nunn?’

‘How can it matter?’

‘It matters a good deal. Have you told her any scandal about me?’

‘Yes, I have.’

Everard looked at her with surprise.

‘I spoke to Miss Nunn about you,’ she continued, ‘before I thought of your coming here. Frankly, I used you as an illustration of the evils I abominate.’

‘You are a courageous and plain-spoken woman, cousin Mary,’ said Everard, laughing a little. ‘Couldn’t you have found some other example?’

There was no reply.

‘So,’ he proceeded, ‘Miss Nunn regards me as a proved scoundrel?’

‘I never told her the story. I made known the general grounds of my dissatisfaction with you, that was all.’

‘Come, that’s something. I’m glad you didn’t amuse her with that unedifying bit of fiction.’

‘Fiction?’

‘Yes, fiction,’ said Everard bluntly. ‘I am not going into details; the thing’s over and done with, and I chose my course at the time. But it’s as well to let you know that my behaviour was grossly misrepresented. In using me to point a moral you were grievously astray. I shall say no more. Ii you can believe me, do; if you can’t, dismiss the matter from your mind.’

There followed a silence of some moments. Then, with a perfectly calm manner, Miss Barfoot began to speak of a new subject. Everard followed her lead. He did not stay much longer, and on leaving asked to be remembered to Miss Nunn.

A week later he again found his cousin alone. He now felt sure that Miss Nunn was keeping out of his way. Her parting from him in the gardens had been decidedly abrupt, and possibly it signified more serious offence than at the time he attributed to her. It was so difficult to be sure of anything in regard to Miss Nunn. If another woman had acted thus he would have judged it coquetry. But perhaps Rhoda was quite incapable of anything of that kind. Perhaps she took herself so very seriously that the mere suspicion of banter in his talk had moved her to grave resentment. Or again, she might be half ashamed to meet him after confessing her disagreement with Miss Barfoot; on recovery from ill-temper (unmistakable ill-temper it was), she had seen her behaviour in an embarrassing light. Between these various conjectures he wavered whilst talking with Mary. But he did not so much as mention Miss Nunn’s name.

Some ten days went by, and he paid a call at the hour sanctioned by society, five in the afternoon; it being Saturday. One of his reasons for coming at this time was the hope that he might meet other callers, for he felt curious to see what sort of people visited the house. And this wish was gratified. On entering the drawing-room, whither he was led by the servant straightway, after the manner of the world, he found not only his cousin and her friend, but two strangers, ladies. A glance informed him that both of these were young and good-looking, one being a type that particularly pleased him — dark, pale, with very bright eyes.

Miss Barfoot received him as any hostess would have done. She was her cheerful self once more, and in a moment introduced him to the lady with whom she had been talking — the dark one, by name Mrs. Widdowson. Rhoda Nunn, sitting apart with the second lady, gave him her hand, but at once resumed her conversation.

With Mrs. Widdowson he was soon chatting in his easy and graceful way, Miss Barfoot putting in a word now and then. He saw that she had not long been married; a pleasant diffidence and the maidenly glance of her bright eyes indicated this. She was dressed very prettily, and seemed aware of it.

‘We went to hear the new opera at the Savoy last night,’ she said to Miss Barfoot, with a smile of remembered enjoyment.

‘Did you? Miss Nunn and I were there.’

Everard gazed at his cousin with humorous incredulity.

‘Is it possible?’ he exclaimed. ‘You were at the Savoy?’

‘Where is the impossibility? Why shouldn’t Miss Nunn and I go to the theatre?’

‘I appeal to Mrs. Widdowson. She also was astonished.’

‘Yes, indeed I was, Miss Barfoot!’ exclaimed the younger lady, with a merry little laugh. ‘I hesitated before speaking of such a frivolous entertainment.’

Lowering her voice, and casting a smile in Rhoda’s direction, Miss Barfoot replied  —

‘I have to make a concession occasionally on Miss Nunn’s account. It would be unkind never to allow her a little recreation.’

The two at a distance were talking earnestly, with grave countenances. In a few moments they rose, and the visitor came towards Miss Barfoot to take her leave. Thereupon Everard crossed to Miss Nunn.

‘Is there anything very good in the new Gilbert and Sullivan opera?’ he asked.

‘Many good things. You really haven’t been yet?’

‘No — I’m ashamed to say.’

‘Do go this evening, if you can get a seat. Which part of the theatre do you prefer?’

His eye rested on her, but he could detect no irony.

‘I’m a poor man, you know. I have to be content with the cheap places. Which do you like best, the Savoy operas or the burlesques at the Gaiety?’

A few more such questions and answers, of laboured commonplace or strained flippancy, and Everard, after searching his companion’s face, broke off with a laugh.

‘There now,’ he said, ‘we have talked in the approved five o’clock way. Precisely the dialogue I heard in a drawing-room yesterday. It goes on day after day, year after year, through the whole of people’s lives.’

‘You are on friendly terms with such people?’

‘I am on friendly terms with people of every kind.’ He added, in an undertone, ‘I hope I may include you, Miss Nunn?’

But to this she paid no attention. She was looking at Monica and Miss Barfoot, who had just risen from their seats. They approached, and presently Barfoot found himself alone with the familiar pair.

‘Another cup of tea, Everard?’ asked his cousin.

‘Thank you. Who was the young lady you didn’t introduce me to?’

‘Miss Haven — one of our pupils.’

‘Does she think of going into business?’

‘She has just got a place in the publishing department of a weekly paper.’

‘But really — from the few words of her talk that fell upon my ear I should have thought her a highly educated girl.’

‘So she is,’ replied Miss Barfoot. ‘What is your objection?’

‘Why doesn’t she aim at some better position?’

Miss Barfoot and Rhoda exchanged smiles.

‘But nothing could be better for her. Some day she hopes to start a paper of her own, and to learn all the details of such business is just what she wants. Oh, you are still very conventional, Everard. You meant she ought to take up something graceful and pretty — something ladylike.’

‘No, no. It’s all right. I thoroughly approve. And when Miss Haven starts her paper, Miss Nunn will write for it.’

‘I hope so,’ assented his cousin.

‘You make me feel that I am in touch with the great movements of our time. It’s delightful to know you. But come now, isn’t there any way in which I could help?’

Mary laughed.

‘None whatever, I’m afraid.’

‘Well — “They also serve who only stand and wait.”’

If Everard had pleased himself he would have visited the house in Queen’s Road every other day. As this might not be, he spent a good deal of his time in other society, not caring to read much, or otherwise occupy his solitude. Starting with one or two acquaintances in London, people of means and position, he easily extended his social sphere. Had he cared to marry, he might, notwithstanding his poverty, have wooed with fair chance in a certain wealthy family, where two daughters, the sole children, plain but well-instructed girls, waited for the men of brains who should appreciate them. So rare in society, these men of brains, and, alas! so frequently deserted by their wisdom when it comes to choosing a wife. It being his principle to reflect on every possibility, Barfoot of course asked himself whether it would not be reasonable to approach one or other of these young women — the Miss Brissendens. He needed a larger income; he wanted to travel in a more satisfactory way than during his late absence. Agnes Brissenden struck him as a very calm and sensible girl; not at all likely to marry any one but the man who would be a suitable companion for her, and probably disposed to look on marriage as a permanent friendship, which must not be endangered by feminine follies. She had no beauty, but mental powers above the average — superior, certainly, to her sister’s.

It was worth thinking about, but in the meantime he wanted to see much more of Rhoda Nunn. Rhoda he was beginning to class with women who are attractive both physically and mentally. Strange how her face had altered to his perception since the first meeting. He smiled now when he beheld it — smiled as a man does when his senses are pleasantly affected. He was getting to know it so well, to be prepared for its constant changes, to watch for certain movements of brows or lips when he had said certain things. That forcible holding of her hand had marked a stage in progressive appreciation; since then he felt a desire to repeat the experiment.

‘Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave —’

The lines occurred to his memory, and he understood them better than heretofore. It would delight him to enrage Rhoda, and then to detain her by strength, to overcome her senses, to watch her long lashes droop over the eloquent eyes. But this was something very like being in love, and he by no means wished to be seriously in love with Miss Nunn.

It was another three weeks before he had an opportunity of private talk with her. Trying a Sunday afternoon, about four, he found Rhoda alone in the drawing-room; Miss Barfoot was out of town. Rhoda’s greeting had a frank friendliness which she had not bestowed upon him for a long time; not, indeed, since they met on her return from Cheddar. She looked very well, readily laughed, and seemed altogether in a coming-on disposition. Barfoot noticed that the piano was open.

‘Do you play?’ he inquired. ‘Strange that I should still have to ask the question.’

‘Oh, only a hymn on Sunday,’ she answered off-hand.

‘A hymn?’

‘Why not? I like some of the old tunes very much. They remind me of the golden age.’

‘In your own life, you mean?’

She nodded.

‘You have once or twice spoken of that time as if you were not quite happy in the present.’

‘Of course I am not quite happy. What woman is? I mean, what woman above the level of a petted pussy-cat?’

Everard was leaning towards her on the head of the couch where he sat. He gazed into her face fixedly.

‘I wish it were in my power to remove some of your discontents. I would, more gladly than I can tell you.’

‘You abound in good nature, Mr. Barfoot,’ she replied laughing. ‘But unfortunately you can’t change the world.’

‘Not the world at large. But might I not change your views of it — in some respects?’

‘Indeed I don’t see how you could. I think I had rather have my own view than any you might wish to substitu............