My lord had one of his wilful likings for Isabella Lawrence Finchley, and he consented to the torture of an hour of Mrs. Nargett Pagnell in the middle of the day, just to taste the favourite he welcomed at home as he championed her abroad.  The reasons were numerous and intimate why she pleased him.  He liked the woman, enjoyed the cause for battle that she gave.  Weyburn, on coming to the luncheon table, beheld a lady with the head of a comely boy, the manner, softened in delicate feminine, of a capital comrade.  Her air of candour was her nature in her face; and it carried a guileless roguery, a placid daring, a supersensual naughtiness, a simplicity of repose amid the smoky reputation she created, that led one to think the vapour calumnious or the creature privileged.  That young boy’s look opened him at once; he had not to warm to her, ­he flew.  Ordinarily the sweetest ladies will make us pass through cold mist and cross a stile or two, or a broken bridge, before the formalities are cleared away to grant us rights of citizenship.  She was like those frank lands where we have not to hand out a passport at the frontier and wait for dubious inspection of it.

She prevailed with cognizant men and with the frivolous.  Women were capable of appreciating her, too:  as Aminta did, despite some hinted qualifications addressed shyly to her husband.  But these were the very matters exciting his particular esteem.  He was of Lady Charlotte’s mind, in her hot zeal against injustice done to the creatures she despised; and yet more than she applauded a woman who took up her idiot husband’s challenge to defend her good name, and cleared it, right or wrong, and beat him down on his knees, and then started for her spell of the merry canter over turf:  an example to the English of the punishment they get for their stupid Puritanic tyranny ­sure to be followed by a national helter-skelter down-hill headlong.  And Mrs. Lawrence was not one of the corrupt, he argued; she concealed what it was decent to conceal, without pouting hypocritical pretences; she had merely dispensed with idle legal formalities, in the prettiest curvetting airy wanton way, to divorce the man who tried to divorce her, and ’whined to be forgiven when he found he couldn’t.  Adderwood was ready to marry her to-morrow, if the donkey husband would but go and bray his last.  Half a dozen others were heads off on the same course to that goal.’

That was her champion’s perusal of a lady candidly asserting her right to have breeched comrades, and paying for it in the advocacy which compromises.  She was taken to be and she was used as a weapon wherewith to strike at our Pharisees.  Women pushing out into the world for independence, bleed heavy payments all round.

The earl’s double-edged defence of her was partly a vindication of another husband, who allowed his wife to call her friend; he was nevertheless assured of her not being corrupt, both by his personal knowledge of the lady, and his perception of her image in the bosom of his wife.  She did no harm there, he knew well.  Although he was not a man to put his trust in faces, as his young secretary inclined to do, Mrs. Lawrence’s look of honest boy did count among the pleadings.  And somewhat so might a government cruiser observe the intrusion of a white-sailed yacht in protected sea-waters, where licenced trawlers are at the haul.

Talk over the table coursed as fluently as might be, with Mrs. Pagnell for a boulder in the stream.  Uninformed by malice, she led up to Lord Adderwood’s name, and perhaps more designedly spoke of Mr. Morsfield, on whom her profound reading into the female heart of the class above her caused her to harp, as ‘a real Antinous,’ that the ladies might discuss him and Lord Ormont wax meditative.

Mrs. Lawrence pitied the patient gentleman, while asking him in her mind who was the author of the domestic burden he had to bear.

‘It reminds me I have a mission,’ she said.  ’There’s a fencing match down at a hall in the West, near the barracks; private and select:  Soldier and Civilian; I forget who challenged ­Civilian, one judges; Soldiers are the peaceful party.  They want you to act “umpire,” as they call it, on the military side, my dear lord; and you will? ­I have given my word you will bring Lady Ormont.  You will? ­and not let me be confounded!  Yes, and we shall make a party.  I see consent.  Aminta will enjoy the switch of steel.  I love to see fencing.  It rouses all that is diabolical in me.’

She sent a skimming look at the opposite.

‘And I,’ said he, much freshened.

‘You fence?’

‘Handle the foils.’

‘If you must speak modestly!  Are you in practice?’

’I spend in hour in Captain Chiallo’s fencing rooms generally every evening before dinner.  I heard there the first outlines of the match proposed.  You are right; it was the civilian.’

‘Mr. Morsfield, as I suspected.’

She smiled to herself, like one saying, Not badly managed, Mr. Morsfield!

‘Italian school?’ Lord Ormont inquired, with a screw of the eyelids.

‘French, my lord.’

‘The only school for teaching.’

’The simplest ­has the most rational method.  Italians are apt to be tricky.  But they were masters once, and now and then they send out a fencer the French can’t touch.’

‘How would you account for it?’

’If I had to account for it, I should say, hotter blood, cool nerve, quick brain.’

‘Hum.  Where are we, then?’

‘We don’t shine with the small sword.’

‘We had men neatly pinked for their slashings in the Peninsula.’

‘We’ve had clever Irishmen.’

’Hot enough blood!  This man Morsfield ­have you crossed the foils with him?’

’Goes at it like a Spaniard; though Spaniards in Paris have been found wary enough.’

My lord hummed.  ’Fellow looks as if he would easily lose his head over steel.’

‘He can be dangerous.’

The word struck on something, and rang.

Mrs. Lawrence had a further murmur within her lips.  Her travelling eye met Aminta’s and passed it.

‘But not dangerous, surely, if the breast is padded?’ said Mrs. Pagnell.

‘Oh no, oh no; not in that case!’ Mrs. Lawrence ran out her voluble assent, and her eyelids blinked; her fair boy’s face was mischief at school under shadow of the master.

She said to Weyburn:  ’Are you one in the list ­to give our military a lesson?  They want it.’

His answer was unheard by Aminta.  She gathered from Mrs. Lawrence’s pleased sparkle that he had been invited to stand in the list; and the strange, the absurd spectacle of a young schoolmaster taking the heroic attitude for attack and defence wrestled behind her eyes with a suddenly vivid first-of-May cricketing field, a scene of snowballs flying, the vision of a strenuous lighted figure scaling to noble young manhood.  Isabella Lawrence’s look at him spirited the bright past out of the wretched long-brown-coat shroud of the present, prompting her to grieve that some woman’s hand had not smoothed a small tuft of hair, disorderly on his head a little above the left parting, because Isabella Lawrence Finchley could have no recollection of how it used to toss feathery ­wild at his games.

My lord hummed again.  ’I suspect we ’re going to get a drubbing.  This fellow here has had his French maitre d’armes.  Show me your hand, sir.’

Weyburn smiled, and extended his right hand, saying:  ’The wrist wants exercise.’

‘Ha! square thumb, flesh full at the nails’ ends; you were a bowler at cricket.’

‘Now examine the palms, my lord; I judge by the lines on the palms,’ Mrs. Pagnell remarked.

He nodded to her and rose.

Coffee had not been served, she reminded him; it was coming in, so down he sat a yard from the table; outwardly equable, inwardly cursing coffee; though he refused to finish a meal without his cup.

‘I think the palms do betray something,’ said Mrs. Lawrence; and Aminta said:  ‘Everything betrays.’

‘No, my dear,’ Mrs. Pagnell corrected her; ’the extremities betray, and we cannot read the centre.  Is it not so, my lord?’

‘It may be as you say, ma’am.’

She was disappointed in her scheme to induce a general examination of palms, and especially his sphinx lordship’s.

Weyburn controlled the tongue she so frequently tickled to an elvish gavotte, but the humour on his face touched Mrs. Lawrence’s to a subdued good-fellow roguishness, and he felt himself invited to chat with her on the walk for a reposeful ten minutes in Aminta’s drawing-room.

Mrs. Pagnell, ‘quite enjoying the company,’ as she told her niece, was dismayed to hear her niece tell her of a milliner’s appointment, positive for three o’clock; and she had written it in her head ’p.m., four o’clock,’ and she had mislaid or destroyed the milliner’s note; and she still had designs upon his lordship’s palms, things to read and hint around her off the lines.  She departed.

Lord Ormont became genial; and there was no one present who did not marvel that he should continue to decree a state of circumstances more or less necessitating the infliction he groaned under.  He was too lofty to be questioned, even by his favourites.  Mrs. Lawrence conjured the ghost of Lady Charlotte for an answer:  this being Lord Adderwood’s idea.  Weyburn let his thoughts go on fermenting.  Pride froze a beginning stir in the bosom of Aminta.

Her lord could captivate a reluctant woman’s bosom when he was genial.  He melted her and made her call up her bitterest pride to perform its recent office.  That might have failed; but it had support in a second letter received from the man accounted both by Mrs. Lawrence and by Mr. Weyburn ‘dangerous’; and the thought of who it was that had precipitated her to ‘play little games’ for the sole sake of rousing him through jealousy to a sense of righteous duty, armed her desperately against him.  She could exult in having read the second letter right through on receipt of it, and in remembering certain phrases; and notably in a reflection shot across her bewildered brain by one of the dangerous man’s queer mad sentences:  ’Be as iron as you like, I will strike you to heat’; and her thought:  Is there assurance of safety in a perpetual defence? ­all while she smiled on her genial lord, and signified agreement, with a smiting of wonderment at her heart, when he alluded to a panic shout of the country for defence, and said:  ’Much crying of that kind weakens the power to defend when the real attack comes.’  Was it true?

‘But say what you propose?’ she asked.

Lord Ormont proposed vigilance and drill; a small degree of self-sacrifice on the part of the population, and a look-out head in the War Department.  He proposed to have a nation of stout-braced men laughing at the foreign bully or bandit, instead of being a pack of whimpering women; whom he likened to the randomly protestant geese of our country roadside, heads out a yard in a gabble of defence while they go backing.

So thereupon Aminta’s notion of a resemblance in the mutual thought subsided; she relapsed on the cushioning sentiment that she was a woman.  And ­only a woman! he might exclaim, if it pleased him; though he would never be able to say she was one of the whimpering.  She, too, had the choice to indulge in scorn of the superior man stone blind to proceedings intimately affecting him ­if he cared!  One might doubt it.

Mrs. Lawrence listened to him with a mind more disengaged, and a flitting disapproval of Aminta’s unsympathetic ear, or reluctance to stimulate the devout attention a bruised warrior should have in his tent.  She did not press on him the post of umpire.  He consented ­at her request, he said ­to visit the show; but refused any official position that would, it was clearly enough implied, bring his name in any capacity whatever before the country which had unpardonably maltreated him.

Feminine wits will be set working, when a point has been gained; and as Mrs. Lawrence could now say she had persuaded Lord Ormont to gratify her specially, she warmed to fancy she read him, and that she might have managed the wounded and angry giant.  Her minor intelligence, caracoling unhampered by harassing emotions, rebuked Aminta’s for not perceiving that to win him round to whatever a woman may desire, she must be with him, outstrip him even, along the line he chooses for himself; abuse the country, rail at the Government, ridicule the title of English Army, proscribe the name of India in his hearing.  Little stings of jealousy are small insect bites, and do not pique a wounded giant hardly sensible of irritation under his huge, and as we assume for our purpose, justifiable wrath.  We have to speculate which way does the giant incline to go? and turn him according to the indication.

Mrs. Lawrence was driven by her critic mood to think Aminta relied ­erroneously, after woman’s old fashion ­on the might of superb dark eyes after having been captured.  It seemed to her worse than a beautiful woman’s vanity, a childishness.  But her boy’s head held boy’s brains; and Lord Ormont’s praise of the splendid creature’s nerve when she had to smell powder in Spain, and at bull-fights, and once at a wrecking of their carriage down a gully on the road over the Alpujarras, sent her away subdued, envious, happy to have kissed the cheek of the woman who could inspire it.