I

How exhilarating (Mr. Prohack found it) to be on the road without a destination!  It was Sunday morning, and the morning was marvellous for the time of year.  Mr. Prohack had had a very fine night, and he now felt a curious desire to defy something or somebody, to defend himself, and to point out, if any one accused him of cowardice, that he had not retreated from danger until after he had fairly affronted it.  More curious still was the double, self-contradictory sensation of feeling both righteous and sinful.  He would have spurned a charge of wickedness, and yet the feeling of being wicked was really very jolly.  He seemed to have begun a new page of life, and then to have ripped the page away-and possibly spoilt the whole book.  Deference to Eve, of course!  Respect for Eve!  Or was it merely that he must always be able to look Eve in the face?  In sending the car for his idle use, Eve had performed a master-stroke which laid him low by its kindliness, its wifeliness, its touches of perverse self-sacrifice and of vague, delicate malice.  Lady Massulam hung in the vast hollow of his mind, a brilliant and intensely seductive figure; but Eve hung there too, and Mr. Prohack was obliged to admit that the simple Eve was holding her own.

“My sagacity is famous,” said Mr. Prohack to himself.  “And I never showed more of it than in leaving Frinton instantly.  Few men would have had the sense and the resolution to do it.”  And he went on praising himself to himself.  Such was the mood of this singular man.

Hunger-Mr. Prohack’s hunger-drew them up at Frating, a village a few miles short of Colchester.  The inn at Frating had been constructed ages earlier entirely without reference to the fact that it is improper for certain different types of humanity to eat or drink in each other’s presence.  In brief, there was obviously only one dining-room, and not a series of dining-rooms classified according to castes.  Mr. Prohack, free, devil-may-care and original, said to his chauffeur: 

“You’d better eat with me, Carthew.”

“You’re very kind, sir,” said Carthew, and at once sat down and ceased to be a chauffeur.

“Well, I haven’t been seeing much of you lately,” Mr. Prohack edged forward into the fringes of intimacy when three glasses of beer and three slices of Derby Round had been unequally divided between them, “have I?”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Prohack had in truth been seeing Carthew almost daily; but on this occasion he used the word “see” in a special sense.

“That boy of yours getting on all right?”

“Pretty fair, considering he’s got no mother, if you understand what I mean, sir,” replied Carthew, pushing back his chair, stretching out his legs, and picking his teeth with a fork.

“Ah! yes!” said Mr. Prohack commiseratingly.  “Very awkward situation for you, that is.”

“It isn’t awkward for me, sir.  It’s my boy it’s awkward for.  I’m as right as rain.”

“No chance of the lady coming back, I suppose?”

“Well, she’d better not try,” said Carthew grimly.

“But does this mean you’ve done with the sex, at your age?” cried Mr. Prohack.

“I don’t say as I’ve done with the sex, sir.  Male and female created He them, as the good old Book says; and I’m not going behind that.  No, not me!  All I say is, I’m as right as rain-for the present-and she’d better not try.”

“I bet you anything you won’t keep it up,” said Mr. Prohack, impetuously exceeding the limits of inter-caste decorum.

“Keep what up?”

“This attitude of yours.”

“I won’t bet, sir,” said Carthew.  “Because nobody can see round a corner.  But I promise you I’ll never take a woman seriously again.  That’s the mistake we make, taking ’em seriously.  You see, sir, being a chauffeur in the early days of motor-cars, I’ve had a tidy bit of experience, if you understand what I mean.  Because in them days a chauffeur was like what an air-pilot is to-day.  He didn’t have to ask, he didn’t.  And what I say is this-I say we’re mugs to take ’em seriously.”

“You think we are!” bubbled Mr. Prohack emptily, perceiving that he had to do with an individual whom misfortune had rendered impervious to argument.

“I do, sir.  And what’s more, I say you never know where you are with any woman.”

“That I agree with,” said Mr. Prohack, with a polite show of eagerness.  “But you’re cutting yourself off from a great deal you know, Carthew,” he added, thinking magnificently upon his adventure with Lady Massulam.

“There’s a rare lot as would like to be in my place,” murmured Carthew with bland superiority.  “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll just go and give her a look over before we start again.”  He scraped his chair cruelly over the wood floor, rose, and ceased to be an authority on women.

It was while exercising his privilege of demanding, awaiting, and paying the bill, that Mr. Prohack happened to see, at the other end of the long, empty dining-room table, a copy of The Sunday Picture, which was the Sabbath edition of The Daily Picture.  He got up and seized it, expecting it to be at least a week old.  It proved, however, to be as new and fresh as it could be.  Mr. Prohack glanced with inimical tolerance at its pages, until his eye encountered the portraits of two ladies, both known to him, side by side.  One was Miss Eliza Fiddle, the rage of the West End, and the other was Mrs. Arthur Prohack, wife of the well-known Treasury official.  The portraits were juxtaposed, it seemed, because Miss Eliza Fiddle had just let her lovely home in Manchester Square to Mrs. Arthur Prohack.

The shock of meeting Eve in The Sunday Picture was terrible, but equally terrible to Mr. Prohack was the discovery of his ignorance in regard to the ownership of the noble mansion.  He had understood-or more correctly he had been given to understand-that the house and its contents belonged to a certain peer, whose taste in the arts was as celebrated as that of his lordly forefathers had been.  Assuredly neither Eliza Fiddle nor anybody like her could have been responsible for the exquisite decorations and furnishings of that house.  On the other hand, it would have been very characteristic of Eliza Fiddle to leave the house as carelessly as it had been left, with valuable or invaluable bibelots lying about all over the place.  Almost certainly Eliza Fiddle must have had some sort of effective ownership of the place.  He knew that dazzling public favourites did sometimes enjoy astounding and mysterious luck in the matter of luxurious homes, and that some of them progressed through a series of such homes, each more inexplicable than the last.  He would not pursue the enquiry, even in his own mind.  He had of course no grudge against the efficient and strenuous Eliza, for he was perfectly at liberty not to pay money in order to see her.  She must be an exceedingly clever woman; and it was not in him to cast stones.  Yet, Pharisaical snob, he did most violently resent that she should be opposite his wife in The Sunday Picture.... Eve!  Eve!  A few short weeks ago, and you made a mock of women who let themselves get into The Daily Picture.  And now you are there yourself! (But so, and often, was the siren Lady Massulam!  A ticklish thing, criticism of life!)

And there was another point, as sharp as any.  Ozzie Morfey must have known, Charlie must have known, Sissie must have known, Eve herself must have known, that the de facto owner of the noble mansion was Eliza Fiddle.  And none had vouchsafed the truth to him.

“We’ll struggle back to town I think,” said Mr. Prohack to Carthew, with a pitiable affectation of brightness.  And instead of sitting by Carthew’s side, as previously, he sat behind, and reflected upon the wisdom of Carthew.  He had held that Carthew’s views were warped by a peculiar experience.  He now saw that they were not warped at all, but shapely, sane and incontrovertible.

II

That evening, soon after dark, the Eagle, dusty and unkempt from a journey which had not been free from mishaps, rolled up to the front-door of Mr. Prohack’s original modest residence behind Hyde Park; and Mr. Prohack jumped out; and Carthew came after him with two bags.  The house was as dark as the owner’s soul; not a gleam of light in any window.  Mr. Prohack produced his familiar latch-key, scraped round the edge of the key-hole, savagely pushed in the key, and opened the door.  There was still no light nor sign of life.  Mr. Prohack paused on the threshold, and then his hand instinctively sought the electric switch and pulled it down.  No responsive gleam!

“Machin!” called Mr. Prohack, as it were plaintively.

No sound.

“I am a fool,” thought Mr. Prohack.

He struck a match and walked forward delicately, peering.  He descried an empty portmanteau lying on the stairs.  He shoved against the dining-room door, which was ajar, and lit another match, and started back.  The dining-room was full of ghosts, furniture sheeted in dust-sheets; and a newspaper had been made into a cap over his favourite Chippendale clock.  He retreated.

“Put those bags into the car again,” he said to Carthew, who stood hesitant on the vague whiteness of the front-step.

How much did Carthew know?  Mr. Prohack was too proud to ask.  Carthew was no longer an authority on women lunching with an equal; he was a servitor engaged and paid on the clear understanding that he should not speak until spoken to.

“Drive to Claridge’s Hotel,” said Mr. Prohack.

“Yes, sir.”

At the entrance to the hotel the party was received by gigantic uniformed guards with all the respect due to an Eagle.  Ignoring the guards, Mr. Prohack passed imperially within to the reception office.

“I want a bedroom, a sitting-room and a bath-room, please.”

“A private suite, sir?”

“A private suite.”

“What-er-kind, sir?  We have-”

“The best,” said Mr. Prohack, with finality.  He signed his name and received a ticket.

“Please have my luggage taken out of the car, and tell my chauffeur I shall want him at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, and that he should take the car to the hotel-garage, wherever it is, and sleep here.  I will have some tea at once in my sitting-room.”

The hotel-staff, like all hotel-staffs, loved a customer who knew his mind with precision and could speak it.  Mr. Prohack was admirably served.

After tea he took a bath because he could think of nothing else to do.  The bath, as baths will, inspired him with an idea.  He set out on foot to Manchester Square, and having reached the Square cautiously followed the side opposite to the noble mansion.  The noble mansion blazed with lights through the wintry trees.  It resembled the set-piece of a pyrotechnic display.  Mr. Prohack shivered in the dank evening.  Then he observed that blinds and curtains were being drawn in the noble mansion, shutting out from its superb nobility the miserable, crude, poverty-stricken world.  With the exception of the glow in the fan light over the majestic portals, the noble mansion was now as dark as Mr. Prohack’s other house.

He shut his lips, steeled himself, and walked round the Square to the noble mansion and audaciously rang the bell.  He had to wait.  He shook guiltily, as though he, and no member of his family, had sinned.  A little more, and his tongue would have cleaved to the gold of his upper denture.  The double portals swung backwards.  Mr. Prohack beheld the portly form of an intensely traditional butler, and behind the butler a vista of outer and inner halls and glimpses of the soaring staircase.  He heard, somewhere in the distance of the interior, the ringing laugh of his daughter Sissie.

The butler looked carelessly down upon him, and, as Mr. Prohack uttered no word, challenged him.

“Yes, sir?”

“Is Mrs. Prohack at home?”

“No, sir.” (Positively.)

“Is Miss Prohack at home?”

“No, sir.” (More positively.)

“Oh!”

“Will you leave your name, sir?”

“No.”

Abruptly Mr. Prohack turned away.  He had had black moments in his life.  This was the blackest.

Of course he might have walked right in, and said to the butler:  “Here’s a month’s wages.  Hook it.”  But he was a peculiar fellow, verging sometimes on silliness.  He merely turned away.  The vertiginous rapidity of his wife’s developments, manoeuvres and transformations had dazed him into a sort of numbed idiocy.  In two days, in a day, with no warning to him of her extraordinary precipitancy, she had ‘flitted’!

At Claridge’s, through giving Monsieur Charles, the maitre d’ hotel, carte blanche in the ordering of his dinner and then only half-eating his dinner, Mr. Prohack failed somewhat to maintain his prestige, though he regained ground towards the end by means of champagne and liqueurs.  The black-and-gold restaurant was full of expensive persons who were apparently in ignorance of the fact that the foundations of the social fabric had been riven.  They were all gay; the music was gay; everything was gay except Mr. Prohack-the sole living being in the place who conformed in face and heart to the historical conception of the British Sunday.

But Mr. Prohack was not now a man,-he was a grievance; he was the most deadly kind of grievance, the irrational kind.  A superlatively fine cigar did a little-not much-to solace him.  He smoked it with scientific slowness, and watched the restaurant empty itself....  He was the last survivor in the restaurant; and fifteen waiters and two hundred and fifty electric lamps were keeping him in countenance.  Then his wandering, enfeebled attention heard music afar off, and he remembered some remark of Sissie’s to the effect that Claridge’s was the best place for dancing in London on Sunday nights.  He would gaze Byronically upon the dance.  He signed his bill and mooned towards the ball-room, which was full of radiant couples:  a dazzling scene, fit to mark the end of an epoch and of a society.

The next thing was that he had an absurd delusion of seeing Sissie and Charlie locked together amid the couples.  He might have conquered this delusion, but it was succeeded by another,-the illusion of seeing Ozzie Morfey and Eve locked together amid the couples....  Yes, they were there, all four of them.  At first Mr. Prohack was amazed, as at an unprecedented coincidence.  But he perceived that the coincidence was not after all so amazing.  They had done what they had to do in the way of settling Eve into the noble mansion, and then they had betaken themselves to the nearest and the best dancing resort for the rest of the evening.  Nothing could be more natural.

Mr. Prohack might have done all manner of feats.  What he actually did do was to fly like a criminal to the lift and seek his couch.

III

The next morning at ten o’clock a strange thing happened.  The hotel clocks showed the hour and Mr. Prohack’s watch showed the hour, and Carthew was not there with the car.  Mr. Prohack could not understand this unnatural failure to appear on the part of Carthew, for Carthew had never been known to be late (save when interfered with by Mimi), and therefore never could be late.  Mr. Prohack fretted for a quarter of an hour, and then caused the hotel-garage to be telephoned to.  The car had left the garage at nine-fifty.  Mr. Prohack went out for a walk, not ostensibly, but really, to look for the car in the streets of London!  (Such was his diseased mentality.) He returned at half past eleven, and at eleven thirty-two the car arrived.  Immediately Mr. Prohack became calm; his exterior was apt to be very deceptive; and he said gently to Carthew, just as if nothing in the least unusual had occurred: 

“A little late, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Carthew replied, with a calmness to match his employer’s.  “As I was coming here from the garage I met the mistress.  She was looking for a taxi and she took me.”

“But did you tell her that I asked you to be here at 10 o’clock?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you tell her that I was in London?”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Prohack hesitated a moment and then said: 

“Drive into Hyde Park, please, and keep to the north side.”

When the car had reached a quiet spot in the park, Mr. Prohack stopped it, and, tapping on the front window, summoned Carthew.

“Carthew,” said he, through the side-window, which he let down without opening the door, “we’re by ourselves.  Will you kindly explain to me why you concealed from Mrs. Prohack that I was in London?”

“Well, sir,” Carthew answered, very erect and slightly frowning, “I didn’t know you were in London, if you understand what I mean.”

“Didn’t you bring me to London?  Of course you knew I was in London.”

“No, sir.  Not if you understand what I mean.”

“I emphatically do not understand what you mean,” said Mr. Prohack, who, however, was not speaking the truth.

“May I put a question, sir?” Carthew suggested.  “Having regard to all the circumstances-I say having regard as it were to all the circumstances, in a manner of speaking, what should you have done in my place, sir?”

“How do I know?” cried Mr. Prohack.  “I’m not a chauffeur.  What did you say to Mrs. Prohack?”

“I said that you had instructed me to return to London, as you didn’t need the car, and that I was just going to the house for orders.  And by the way, sir,” Carthew added, glancing at the car-clock, “Madam told me to be back at twelve fifteen-I told her I ought to go to the garage to get something done to the carbureter-so that there is not much time.”

Mr. Prohack jumped out of the car and said:  “Go.”

Wandering alone in the chilly Park he reflected upon the potentialities of human nature as exhibited in chauffeurs.  The fellow Carthew had evidently come to the conclusion that there was something wrong in the more intimate relationships of the Prohack family, and, faced with a sudden contretemps, he had acted according to the best of his wisdom and according to his loyalty to his employer, but he had acted wrongly.  But of course the original sinner was Mr. Prohack himself.  Respectable State officials, even when on sick leave, do not call at empty houses and stay at hotels within a stone’s throw of their own residences unknown to their families.  No!  Mr. Prohack saw that he had been steering a crooked course.  Error existed and must be corrected.  He decided to walk direct to Manchester Square.  If Eve wanted the car at twelve fifteen she would be out of the house at twelve thirty, and probably out for lunch.  So much the better.  She should find him duly established on her return.

Reconnoitring later at Manchester Square he saw no car, and rang the bell of the noble mansion.  On account of the interview of the previous evening he felt considerably nervous and foolish, and the butler suffered through no fault of the butler’s.

“I’m Mr. Prohack,” said he, with self-conscious fierceness.  “What’s your name?  Brool, eh?  Take my overcoat and send Machin to me at once.”  He lit a cigarette to cover himself.  The situation, though transient, had been sufficiently difficult.

Machin came leaping and bounding down the stairs as if by magic.  She had heard his voice, and her joy at his entry into his abode caused her to forget her parlour-maidenhood and to exhibit a humanity which pained Mr. Brool, who had been brought up in the strictest traditions of flunkeyism.  Her joy pleased Mr. Prohack and he felt better.

“Good morning, Machin,” said he, quite blithely.  “I just want to see how things have been fixed up in my rooms.”  He had not the least notion where or what his rooms were in the vast pile.

“Yes, sir,” Machin responded eagerly, delighted that Mr. Prohack was making to herself, as an old friend, an appeal which he ought to have made to the butler.  Mr. Prohack, guided by the prancing Machin, discovered that, in addition to a study, he had a bedroom and a dressing-room and a share in Eve’s bath-room.  The dressing-room had a most agreeable aspect.  Machin opened a huge and magnificent wardrobe, and in drawer after drawer displayed his new hosiery marvellously arranged, and in other portions of the wardrobe his new suits and hats and boots.  The whole made a wondrous spectacle.

“And who did all this?” he demanded.

“Madam, sir.  But Miss Warburton came to help her at nine this morning, and I helped too.  Miss Warburton has put the lists in your study, sir.”

“Thank you, Machin.  It’s all very nice.”  He was touched.  The thought of all these women toiling in secret to please him was exceedingly sweet.  It was not as though he had issued any requests.  No!  They did what they did from enthusiasm, unknown to him.

“Wait a second,” he stopped Machin, who was leaving him.  “Which floor did you say my study is on?”

She led him to his study.  An enormous desk, and in the middle of it a little pile of papers crushed by a block of crystal!  The papers were all bills.  The amounts of them alarmed him momentarily, but that was only because he could not continuously and effectively remember that he had over three hundred pounds a week coming in.  Still, the bills did somewhat dash him, and he left them without getting to the bottom of the pile.  He thought he would voyage through the house, but he got no further than his wife’s boudoir.  The boudoir also had an enormous desk, and on it also was a pile of papers.  He offended the marital code by picking up the first one, which read as follows:-“Madam.  We beg to enclose as requested estimate for buffet refreshments for one hundred and fifty persons, and hire of one hundred gilt cane chairs and bringing and taking away same.  Trusting to be honoured with your commands-” This document did more than alarm him; it shook him.  Clearly Eve was planning a great reception.  Even to attend a reception was torture to him, always had been; but to be the host at a reception...!  No, his mind refused to contemplate a prospect so appalling.  Surely Eve ought to have consulted him before beginning to plan a reception.  Why a reception?  He glimpsed matters that might be even worse than a reception.  And this was the same woman who had so touchingly arranged his clothes.

IV

He was idly regarding himself in an immense mirror that topped the fireplace, and thinking that despite the stylishness of his accoutrement he presented the appearance of a rather tousled and hairy person of unromantic middle-age, when, in the glass, he saw the gilded door open and a woman enter the room.  He did not move,-only stared at the image.  He knew the woman intimately, profoundly, exhaustively, almost totally.  He knew her as one knows the countryside in which one has grown up, where every feature of the scene has become a habit of the perceptions.  And yet he had also a strange sensation of seeing her newly, of seeing her for the first time in his life and estimating her afresh.  In a flash he had compared her, in this boudoir, with Lady Massulam in Lady Massulam’s bungalow.  In a flash all the queer, frightening romance of 2 a.m. in Frinton had swept through his mind.  Well, she had not the imposingness nor the mystery of Lady Massulam, nor perhaps the challenge of Lady Massulam; she was very much more prosaic to him.  But still he admitted that she had an effect on him, that he reacted to her presence, that she was at any rate at least as incalculable as Lady Massulam, and that there might be bits of poetry gleaming in her prose, and that after a quarter of a century he had not arrived at a final judgment about her.  Withal Lady Massulam had a quality which she lacked,-he did not know what the quality was, but he knew that it excited him in an unprecedented manner and that he wanted it and would renounce it with regret.  “Is it conceivable,” he thought, shocked at himself, “that all three of us are on the road to fifty years?”

Then he turned, and blushed, feeling exactly like an undergraduate.

“I knew you’d be bored up there in that hole.”  Eve greeted him.

“I wasn’t bored for a single moment,” said he.

“Don’t tell me,” said she.

She was very smart in her plumpness.  The brim of her spreading hat bumped against his forehead as he bent to kiss her.  The edge of the brown veil came half-way down her face, leaving her mouth unprotected from him, but obscuring her disturbing eyes.  As he kissed her all his despondency and worry fell away from him, and he saw with extraordinary clearness that since the previous evening he had been an irrational ass.  The creature had done nothing unusual, nothing that he had not explicitly left her free to do; and everything was all right.

“Did you see your friend Lady Massulam?” was her first question.

Marvellous the intuition-or the happy flukes-of women!  Yet their duplicity was still more marvellous.  The creature’s expressed anxiety about the danger of Lady Massulam’s society to Charlie must have been pure, wanton, gratuitous pretence.

He told her of his meeting with Lady Massulam.

“I left her at 2 a.m.,” said he, with well-feigned levity.

“I knew she wouldn’t leave you alone for long.  But I’ve no doubt you enjoyed it.  I hope you did.  You need adventure, my poor boy.  You were getting into a regular rut.”

“Oh, was I!” he opposed.  “And what are you doing here?  Machin told me you were out for lunch.”

“Oh!  You’ve been having a chat with your friend Machin, have you?  It seems she’s shown you your beautiful dressing-room.  Well, I was going out for lunch.  But when I heard you’d returned I gave it up and came back.  I knew so well you’d want looking after.”

“And who told you I’d returned?”

“Carthew, of course!  You’re a very peculiar pair, you two.  When I first saw him Carthew gave me to understand he’d left you at Frinton.  But when I see him again I learn that you’re in town and that you spent last night at Claridge’s.  You did quite right, my poor boy.  Quite right.  I want you to feel free.  It must have been great fun stopping at Claridge’s, with your own home close by.  I’ll tell you something.  We were dancing at Claridge’s last night, but I suppose you’d gone to bed.”

“The dickens you were!” said he.  “By the way, you might instruct one of your butlers to telephone to the hotel for my things and have the bill paid.”

“So you’ll sleep here to-night?” said she, archly.

“If there’s room,” said he.  “Anyway you’ve arranged all my clothes with the most entrancing harmony and precision.”

“Oh!” Eve exclaimed, in a tone suddenly changed.  “That was Miss Warburton more than me.  She took an hour off from Charlie this morning in order to do it.”

Then Mr. Prohack observed his wife’s face crumble to pieces, and she moved aside from him, sat down and began to cry.

“Now what next?  What next?” he demanded with impatient amiability, for he was completely at a loss to keep pace with the twistings of her mind.

“Arthur, why did you deceive me about that girl?  How could you do it?  I hadn’t the slightest idea it was M-miss W-instock.  I can’t make you out sometimes, Arthur-really I can’t!”

The fellow had honestly forgotten that he had in fact grossly deceived his wife to the point of planting Mimi Winstock upon her as somebody else.  He had been nourishing imaginary and absurd grievances against Eve for many hours, but her grievance against himself was genuine enough and large enough.  No wonder she could not make him out.  He could not make himself out.  His conscience awoke within him and became exceedingly unpleasant.  But being a bad man he laughed somewhat coarsely.

“Oh!” he said.  “That was only a bit of a joke.  But how did you find out, you silly child?”

“Ozzie saw her yesterday.  He knew her.  You can’t imagine how awkward it was.  Naturally I had to laugh it off.  But I cried half the night.”

“But why?  What did it matter?  Ozzie’s one of the family.  The girl’s not at all a bad sort, and I did it for her sake.”

Eve dried her eyes and looked up at him reproachfully with wet cheeks.

“When I think,” said she, “that that girl might so easily have killed me in that accident!  And it would have been all her fault.  And then where would you have been without me?  Where would you have been?  You’d never have got over it.  Never, never!  You simply don’t know what you’d be if you hadn’t got me to look after you!  And you bring her into the house under a false name, and you call it a joke!  No, Arthur.  Frankly I couldn’t have believed it of you.”

Mr. Prohack was affected.  He was not merely dazzled by the new light which she was shedding on things,-he was emotionally moved....  Would Lady Massulam be capable of such an attitude as Eve’s in such a situation?  The woman was astounding.  She was more romantic than any creature in any bungalow of romantic Frinton.  She beat him.  She rent his heart.  So he said: 

“Well, my beloved infant, if it’s any use to you I’m prepared to admit once for all that I was an ass.  We’ll never have the wretched Mimi in the house again.  I’ll give the word to Charlie.”

“Oh, not at all!” she murmured, smiling sadly.  “I’ve got over it.  And you must think of my dignity.  How ridiculous it would be of me to make a fuss about her being here!  Now, wouldn’t it?  But I’m glad I’ve told you.  I didn’t mean to, really.  I meant never to say a word.  But the fact is I can’t keep anything from you.”

She began to cry again, but differently.  He soothed her, as none but he could, thinking exultantly:  “What a power I have over this chit!” They were perfectly happy.  They lunched alone together, talking exclusively for the benefit of Eve’s majestic butler.  And Mr. Prohack, with that many-sidedness that marked his strange regrettable mind, said to himself at intervals:  “Nevertheless she’s still hiding from me her disgusting scheme for a big reception.  And she knows jolly well I shall hate it.”