Mrs. Barnes, however, made no immediate reference to the matter which was in truth filling her mind.  She avoided her husband and mother-in-law, both of whom were clearly anxious to capture her attention; and, by way of protecting herself from them, she spent the late afternoon in looking through Italian photographs with Dr. Lelius.

But about seven o’clock Roger found her lying on her sofa, her hands clasped behind her head ­frowning ­the lips working.

He came in rather consciously, glancing at his wife in hesitation.

“Are you tired, Daphne?”

“No.”

“A penny for your thoughts, then!” He stooped over her and looked into her eyes.

Daphne made no reply.  She continued to look straight before her.

“What’s the matter with you?” he said, at last.

“I’m wondering,” said Daphne slowly, “how many more cousins and great friends you have, that I know nothing about.  I think another time it would be civil ­just that! ­to give me a word of warning.”

Roger pulled at his moustache.  “I hadn’t an idea she was within a thousand miles of this place!  But, if I had, I couldn’t have imagined she would have the face to come here!”

“Who is she?” With a sudden movement Daphne turned her eyes upon him.

“Well, there’s no good making any bones about it,” said the man, flushing.  “She’s a girl I was once engaged to, for a very short time,” he added hastily.  “It was the week before my father died, and our smash came.  As soon as it came she threw me over.”

Daphne’s intense gaze, under the slightly frowning brows, disquieted him.

“How long were you engaged to her?”

“Three weeks.”

“Had she been staying here before that?”

“Yes ­she often stayed here.  Daphne! don’t look like that!  She treated me abominably; and before I married you I had come not to care twopence about her.”

“You did care about her when you proposed to me?”

“No! ­not at all!  Of course, when I went out to New York I was sore, because she had thrown me over.”

“And I” ­Daphne made a scornful lip ­“was the feather-bed to catch you as you fell.  It never occurred to you that it might have been honourable to tell me?”

“Well, I don’t know ­I never asked you to tell me of your affairs!”

Roger, his hands in his pockets, looked round at her with an awkward laugh.

“I told you everything!” was the quick reply ­“everything.”

Roger uncomfortably remembered that so indeed it had been; and moreover that he had been a good deal bored at the time by Daphne’s confessions.

He had not been enough in love with her ­then ­to find them of any great account.  And certainly it had never occurred to him to pay them back in kind.  What did it matter to her or to anyone that Chloe Morant had made a fool of him?  His recollection of the fooling, at the time he proposed to Daphne, was still so poignant that it would have been impossible to speak of it.  And within a few months afterwards he had practically forgotten it ­and Chloe too.  Of course he could not see her again, for the first time, without being “a bit upset”; mostly, indeed, by the boldness ­the brazenness ­of her behaviour.  But his emotions were of no tragic strength, and, as Lady Barnes had complained to Mrs. French, he was now honestly in love with Daphne and his child.

So that he had nothing but impatience and annoyance for the recollection of the visit of the afternoon; and Daphne’s attitude distressed him.  Why, she was as pale as a ghost!  His thoughts sent Chloe Fairmile to the deuce.

“Look here, dear!” he said, kneeling down suddenly beside his wife ­“don’t you get any nonsense into your head.  I’m not the kind of fellow who goes philandering after a woman when she’s jilted him.  I took her measure, and after you accepted me I never gave her another thought.  I forgot her, dear ­bag and baggage!  Kiss me, Daphne!”

But Daphne still held him at bay.

“How long were you engaged to her?” she repeated.

“I’ve told you ­three weeks!” said the man, reluctantly.

“How long had you known her?”

“A year or two.  She was a distant cousin of father’s.  Her father was Governor of Madras, and her mother was dead.  She couldn’t stand India for long together, and she used to stay about with relations.  Why she took a fancy to me I can’t imagine.  She’s so booky and artistic, and that kind of thing, that I never understood half the time what she was talking about.  Now you’re just as clever, you know, darling, but I do understand you.”

Roger’s conscience made a few dim remonstrances.  It asked him whether in fact, standing on his own qualifications and advantages of quite a different kind, he had not always felt himself triumphantly more than a match for Chloe and her cleverness.  But he paid no heed to them.  He was engaged in stroking Daphne’s fingers and studying the small set face.

“Whom did she marry?” asked Daphne, putting an end to the stroking.

“A fellow in the army ­Major Fairmile ­a smart, popular sort of chap.  He was her father’s aide-de-camp when they married ­just after we did ­and they’ve been in India, or Egypt, ever since.  They don’t get on, and I suppose she comes and quarters herself on the old Duchess ­as she used to on us.”

“You seem to know all about her!  Yes, I remember now, I’ve heard people speak of her to you.  Mrs. Fairmile ­Mrs. Fairmile ­yes, I remember,” said Daphne, in a brooding voice, her cheeks becoming suddenly very red.  “Your uncle ­in town ­mentioned her.  I didn’t take any notice.”

“Why should you?  She doesn’t matter a fig, either to you or to me!”

“It matters to me very much that these people who spoke of her ­your uncle and the others ­knew what I didn’t know!” cried Daphne, passionately.  She stared at Roger, strangely conscious that something epoch-making and decisive had happened.  Roger had had a secret from her all these years ­that was what had happened; and now she had discovered it.  That he could have a secret from her, however, was the real discovery.  She felt a fierce resentment, and yet a kind of added respect for him.  All the time he had been the private owner of thoughts and recollections that she had no part in, and the fact roused in her tumult and bitterness.  Nevertheless the disturbance which it produced in her sense of property, the shock and anguish of it, brought back something of the passion of love she had felt in the first year of their marriage.

During these three years she had more than once shown herself insanely jealous for the merest trifles.  But Roger had always laughed at her, and she had ended by laughing at herself.

Yet all the time he had had this secret.  She sat looking at him hard with her astonishing eyes; and he grew more and more uneasy.

“Well, some of them knew,” he said, answering her last reproach.  “And they knew that I was jolly well quit of her!  I suppose I ought to have told you, Daphne ­of course I ought ­I’m sorry.  But the fact was I never wanted to think of her again.  And I certainly never want to see her again!  Why, in the name of goodness, did you accept that tea-fight?”

“Because I mean to go.”

“Then you’ll have to go without me,” was the incautious reply.

“Oh, so you’re afraid of meeting her!  I shall know what to think, if you don’t go.”  Daphne sat erect, her hands clasped round her knees.

Roger made a sound of wrath, and threw his cigarette into the fire.  Then, turning round again to face her, he tried to control himself.

“Look here, Daphne, don’t let us quarrel about this.  I’ll tell you everything you want to know ­the whole beastly story.  But it can’t be pleasant to me to meet a woman who treated me as she did ­and it oughtn’t to be pleasant to you either.  It was like her audacity to come this afternoon.”

“She simply wants to get hold of you again!” Daphne sprang up as she spoke with a violent movement, her face blazing.

“Nonsense! she came out of nothing in the world but curiosity, and because she likes making people uncomfortable.  She knew very well mother and I didn’t want her!”

But the more he tried to persuade her the more determined was Daphne to pay the promised visit, and that he should pay it with her.  He gave way at last, and she allowed herself to be soothed and caressed.  Then, when she seemed to have recovered herself, he gave her a tragic-comic account of the three weeks’ engagement, and the manner in which it had been broken off:  caustic enough, one might have thought, to satisfy the most unfriendly listener.  Daphne heard it all quietly.

Then her maid came, and she donned a tea-gown.

When Roger returned, after dressing, he found her still abstracted.

“I suppose you kissed her?” she said abruptly, as they stood by the fire together.

He broke out in laughter and annoyance, and called her a little goose, with his arm round her.

But she persisted.  “You did kiss her?”

“Well, of course I did!  What else is one engaged for?”

“I’m certain she wished for a great deal of kissing!” said Daphne, quickly.

Roger was silent.  Suddenly there swept through him the memory of the scene in the orchard, and with it an admission ­wrung, as it were, from a wholly unwilling self ­that it had remained for him a scene unique and unapproached.  In that one hour the “muddy vesture” of common feeling and desire that closed in his manhood had taken fire and burnt to a pure flame, fusing, so it seemed, body and soul.  He had not thought of it for years, but now that he was made to think of it, the old thrill returned ­a memory of something heavenly, ecstatic, far transcending the common hours and the common earth.

The next moment he had thrown the recollection angrily from him.  Stooping to his wife, he kissed her warmly.  “Look here, Daphne!  I wish you’d let that woman alone!  Have I ever looked at anyone but you, old girl, since that day at Mount Vernon?”

Daphne let him hold her close:  but all the time, thoughts ­ugly thoughts ­like “little mice stole in and out.”  The notion of Roger and that woman, in the past, engaged ­always together, in each other’s arms, tormented her unendurably.

She did not, however, say a word to Lady Barnes on the subject.  The morning following Mrs. Fairmile’s visit that lady began a rather awkward explanation of Chloe Fairmile’s place in the family history, and of the reasons for Roger’s silence and her own.  Daphne took it apparently with complete indifference, and managed to cut it short in the middle.

Nevertheless she brooded over the whole business; and her resentment showed itself, first of all, in a more and more drastic treatment of Heston, its pictures, decorations and appointments.  Lady Barnes dared not oppose her any more.  She understood that if she were thwarted, or even criticized, Daphne would simply decline to live there, and her own link with the place would be once more broken.  So she withdrew angrily from the scene, and tried not to know what was going on.  Meanwhile a note of invitation had been addressed to Daphne by the Duchess, and had been accepted; Roger had been reminded, at the point of the bayonet, that go he must; and Dr. Lelius had transferred himself from Heston to Upcott, and the companionship of Mrs. Fairmile.

It was the last day of the Frenches’ visit.  Roger and Herbert French had been trying to get a brace or two of partridges on the long-neglected and much-poached estate; and on the way home French expressed a hope that, now they were to settle at Heston, Roger would take up some of the usual duties of the country gentleman.  He spoke in the half-jesting way characteristic of the modern Mentor.  The old didactics have long gone out of fashion, and the moralist of to-day, instead of preaching, ore retundo, must only “hint a fault and hesitate dislike.”  But, hide it as he might, there was an ethical and religious passion in French that would out, and was soon indeed to drive him from Eton to a town parish.  He had been ordained some two years before this date.

It was this inborn pastoral gift, just as real as the literary or artistic gifts, and containing the same potentialities of genius as they which was leading him to feel a deep anxiety about the Barnes’s ménage.  It seemed to him necessary that Daphne should respect her husband; and Roger, in a state of complete idleness, was not altogether respectable.

So, with much quizzing of him as “the Squire,” French tried to goad his companion into some of a Squire’s duties.  “Stand for the County Council, old fellow,” he said.  “Your father was on it, and it’ll give you something to do.”

To his surprise Roger at once acquiesced.  He was striding along in cap and knickerbockers, his curly hair still thick and golden on his temples, his clear skin flushed with exercise, his general physical aspect even more splendid than it had been in his first youth.  Beside him, the slender figure and pleasant irregular face of Herbert French would have been altogether effaced and eclipsed but for the Eton master’s two striking points:  prematurely white hair, remarkably thick and abundant; and very blue eyes, shy, spiritual and charming.

“I don’t mind,” Roger was saying, “if you think they’d have me.  Beastly bore, of course!  But one’s got to do something for one’s keep.”

He looked round with a smile, slightly conscious.  The position he had occupied for some three years, of the idle and penniless husband dependent on his wife’s dollars, was not, he knew, an exalted one in French’s eyes.

“Oh! you’ll find it quite tolerable,” said French.  “Roads and schools do as well as anything else to break one’s teeth on.  We shall see you a magistrate directly.”

Roger laughed.  “That would be a good one! ­I say, you know, I hope Daphne’s going to like Heston.”

French hoped so too, guardedly.

“I hear the Archdeacon got on her nerves yesterday?”

He looked at his companion with a slight laugh and a shrug.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t know.  He’s rather a spiteful old party.  And Daphne’s accustomed to be made a lot of, you know.  In London there’s always a heap of people making up to her ­and in Paris, too.  She talks uncommon good French ­learnt it in the convent.  I don’t understand a word of what they talk about ­but she’s a queen ­I can tell you!  She doesn’t want Archdeacons prating at her.”

“It’ll be all right when she knows the people.”

“Of course, mother and I get along here all right.  We’ve got to pick up the threads again; but we do know all the people, and we like the old place for grandfather’s sake, and all the rest of it.  But there isn’t much to amuse Daphne here.”

“She’ll be doing up the house.”

“And offending mother all the time.  I say, French, don’t you think art’s an awful nuisance!  When I hear Lelius yarning on about quattro-cento and cinque-cento, I could drown myself.  No!  I suppose you’re tarred with the same brush.”  Roger shrugged his shoulders.  “Well, I don’t care, so long as Daphne gets what she wants, and the place suits the child.”  His ruddy countenance took a shade of anxiety.

French inquired what reason there was to suppose that Beatty would not thrive perfectly at Heston.  Roger could only say that the child had seemed to flag a little since their arrival.  Appetite not quite so good, temper difficult, and so on.  Their smart lady-nurse was not quite satisfied.  “And I’ve been finding out about doctors here,” the young father went on, knitting his brows:  “blokes, most of them, and such old blokes!  I wouldn’t trust Beatty to one of them.  But I’ve heard of a new man at Hereford ­awfully good, they say ­a wunner!  And after all a motor would soon run him out!”

He went on talking eagerly about the child, her beauty, her cleverness, the plans Daphne had for her bringing up, and so on.  No other child ever had been, ever could be, so fetching, so “cunning,” so lovely, such a duck!  The Frenches, indeed, possessed a boy of two, reputed handsome.  Roger wished to show himself indulgent to anything that might be pleaded for him.  “Dear little fellow!” ­of course.  But Beatty!  Well! it was surprising, indeed, that he should find himself the father of such a little miracle; he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it.  Herbert French smiled as he walked.

“Of course, I hope there’ll be a boy,” said Roger, stopping suddenly to look at Heston Park, half a mile off, emerging from the trees.  “Daphne would like a boy ­so should I, and particularly now that we’ve got the old house back again.”

He stood and surveyed it.  French noticed in the growing manliness of his face and bearing the signs of things and forces ancestral, of those ghostly hands stretching from the past that in a long settled society tend to push a man into his right place and keep him there.  The Barnes family was tolerable, though not distinguished.  Roger’s father’s great temporary success in politics and business had given it a passing splendour, now quenched in the tides of failure and disaster which had finally overwhelmed his career.  Roger evidently did not want to think much about his Barnes heritage.  But it was clear also that he was proud of the Trescoes; that he had fallen back upon them, so to speak.  Since the fifteenth century there had always been a Trescoe at Heston; and Roger had already taken to browsing in county histories and sorting family letters.  French foresaw a double-barrelled surname before long ­perhaps, just in time for the advent of the future son and heir who was already a personage in the mind, if not yet positively expected.

“My dear fellow, I hope Mrs. Barnes will give you not one son, but many!” he said, in answer to his companion’s outburst.  “They’re wanted nowadays.”

Roger nodded and smiled, and then passed on to discussion of county business and county people.  He had already, it seemed, informed himself to a rather surprising degree.  The shrewd, upright county gentleman was beginning to emerge, oddly, from the Apollo.  The merits and absurdities of the type were already there, indeed, in posse.  How persistent was the type, and the instinct!  A man of Roger’s antecedents might seem to swerve from the course; but the smallest favourable variation of circumstances, and there he was again on the track, trotting happily between the shafts.

“If only the wife plays up!” thought French.

The recollection of Daphne, indeed, emerged simultaneously in both minds.

“Daphne, you know, won’t be able to stand this all the year round,” said Roger.  “By George, no! not with a wagon-load of Leliuses!” Then, with a sudden veer and a flush:  “I say, French, do you know what sort of state the Fairmile marriage is in by now?  I think that lady might have spared her call ­don’t you?”

French kept his eyes on the path.  It was the first time, as far as he was concerned, that Roger had referred to the incident.  Yet the tone of the questioner implied a past history.  It was to him, indeed, that Roger had come, in the first bitterness of his young grief and anger, after the “jilting.”  French had tried to help him, only to find that he was no more a match for the lady than the rest of the world.

As to the call and the invitation, he agreed heartily that a person of delicacy would have omitted them.  The Fairmile marriage, it was generally rumoured, had broken down hopelessly.

“Faults on both sides, of course.  Fairmile is and always was an unscrupulous beggar!  He left Eton just as you came, but I remember him well.”

Roger began a sentence to the effect that if Fairmile had no scruples of his own, Chloe would scarcely have taught him any; but he checked himself abruptly in the middle, and the two men passed to other topics.  French began to talk of East London, and the parish he was to have there.  Roger, indifferent at first, did not remain so.  He did not profess, indeed, any enthusiasm of humanity; but French found in him new curiosities.  That children should starve, and slave, and suffer ­that moved him.  He was, at any rate, for hanging the parents.

The day of the Upcott visit came, and, in spite of all recalcitrance, Roger was made to mount the motor beside his wife.  Lady Barnes had entirely refused to go, and Mr. and Mrs. French had departed that morning for Eton.

As the thing was inevitable, Roger’s male philosophy came to his aid.  Better laugh and have done with it.  So that, as he and Daphne sped along the autumn lanes, he talked about anything and everything.  He expressed, for instance, his friendly admiration for Elsie French.

“She’s just the wife for old Herbert ­and, by George, she’s in love with him!”

“A great deal too much in love with him!” said Daphne, sharply.  The day was chilly, with a strong east wind blowing, and Daphne’s small figure and face were enveloped in a marvellous wrap, compounded in equal proportions of Russian sables and white cloth.  It had not long arrived from Woerth, and Roger had allowed himself some jibes as to its probable cost.  Daphne’s “simplicity,” the pose of her girlhood, was in fact breaking down in all directions.  The arrogant spending instinct had gained upon the moderating and self-restraining instinct.  The results often made Barnes uncomfortable.  But he was inarticulate, and easily intimidated ­by Daphne.  With regard to Mrs. French, however, he took up the cudgels at once.  Why shouldn’t Elsie adore her man, if it pleased her?  Old Herbert was worth it.

Women, said Daphne, should never put themselves wholly in a man’s power.  Moreover, wifely adoration was particularly bad for clergymen, who were far too much inclined already to give themselves airs.

“I say!  Herbert never gives himself airs!”

“They both did ­to me.  They have quite different ways from us, and they make one feel it.  They have family prayers ­we don’t.  They have ascetic ideas about bringing up children ­I haven’t.  Elsie would think it self-indulgent and abominable to stay in bed to breakfast ­I don’t.  The fact is, all her interests and ideals are quite different from mine, and I am rather tired of being made to feel inferior.”

“Daphne! what rubbish!  I’m certain Elsie French never had such an idea in her head.  She’s awfully soft and nice; I never saw a bit of conceit in her.”

“She’s soft outside and steel inside.  Well, never mind! we don’t get on.  She’s the old America, I’m the new,” said Daphne, half frowning, half laughing; “and I’m as good as she.”

“You’re a very good-looking woman, anyway,” said Roger, admiring the vision of her among the warm browns and shining whites of her wrap.  “Much better-looking than when I married you.”  He slipped an arm under the cloak and gave her small waist a squeeze.

Daphne turned her eyes upon him.  In their black depths his touch had roused a passion which was by no means all tenderness.  There was in it something threatening, something intensely and inordinately possessive.  “That means that you didn’t think me good-looking at all, as compared with ­Chloe?” she said insistently.

“Really, Daphne!” ­Roger withdrew his arm with a rather angry laugh ­“the way you twist what one says!  I declare I won’t make you any more pretty speeches for an age.”

Daphne scarcely replied; but there dawned on her face the smile ­melting, provocative, intent ­which is the natural weapon of such a temperament.  With a quick movement she nestled to her husband’s side, and Roger was soon appeased.

The visit which followed always counted in Roger Barnes’s memory as the first act of the tragedy, the first onset of the evil that engulfed him.

They found the old Duchess, Mrs. Fairmile, and Dr. Lelius, alone.  The Duchess had been the penniless daughter of an Irish clergyman, married en secondes noces for her somewhat queer and stimulating personality, by an epicurean duke, who, after having provided the family with a sufficient store of dull children by an aristocratic mother, thought himself at liberty, in his declining years, to please himself.  He had left her the dower-house ­small but delicately Jacobean ­and she was now nearly as old as the Duke had been when he married her.  She was largely made, shapeless, and untidy.  Her mannish face and head were tied up in a kind of lace coif; she had long since abandoned all thought of a waist; and her strong chin rested on an ample bosom.

As soon as Mrs. Barnes was seated near her hostess, Lelius ­who had an intimate acquaintance, through their pictures, with half the great people of Europe ­began to observe the Duchess’s impressions.  Amused curiosity, first.  Evidently Daphne represented to her one of the queer, crude types that modern society is always throwing up on the shores of life ­like strange beasts from deep-sea soundings.

An American heiress, half Spanish ­South-American Spanish ­with no doubt a dash of Indian; no manners, as Europe understands them; unlimited money, and absurd pretensions ­so Chloe said ­in the matter of art; a mixture of the pedant and the parvenue; where on earth had young Barnes picked her up!  It was in some such way, no doubt ­so Lelius guessed ­that the Duchess’s thoughts were running.

Meanwhile Mrs. Barnes was treated with all possible civility.  The Duchess inquired into the plans for rebuilding Heston; talked of her own recollections of the place, and its owners; hoped that Mrs. Barnes was pleased with the neighbourhood; and finally asked the stock question, “And how do you like England?”

Daphne looked at her coolly.  “Moderately!” she said, with a smile, the colour rising in her cheek as she became aware, without looking at them, that Roger and Mrs. Fairmile had adjourned to the farther end of the large room, leaving her to the Duchess and Lelius.

The small eyes above the Duchess’s prominent nose sparkled.  “Only moderately?” The speaker’s tone expressed that she had been for once taken by surprise.  “I’m extremely sorry we don’t please you, Mrs. Barnes.”

“You see, my expectations were so high.”

“Is it the country, or the climate, or the people, that won’t do?” inquired the Duchess, amused.

“I suppose it would be civil to say the climate,” replied Daphne, laughing.

Whereupon the Duchess saw that her visitor had made up her mind not to be overawed.  The great lady summoned Dr. Lelius to her aid, and she, the German, and Daphne, kept up a sparring conversation, in which Mrs. Barnes, driven on by a secret wrath, showed herself rather noisier than Englishwomen generally are.  She was a little impertinent, the Duchess thought, decidedly aggressive, and not witty enough to carry it off.

Meanwhile, Daphne had instantly perceived that Mrs. Fairmile and Roger had disappeared into the conservatory; and though she talked incessantly through their absence, she felt each minute of it.  When they came back for tea, she imagined that Roger looked embarrassed, while Mrs. Fairmile was all gaiety, chatting to her companion, her face raised to his, in the manner of one joyously renewing an old intimacy.  As they slowly advanced up the long room, Daphne felt it almost intolerable to watch them, and her pulses began to race. Why had she never been told of this thing?  That was what rankled; and the Southern wildness in her blood sent visions of the past and terrors of the future hurrying through her brain, even while she went on talking fast and recklessly to the Duchess.

At tea-time conversation turned on the various beautiful things which the room contained ­its Nattiers, its Gobelins, its two dessus de portes by Boucher, and its two cabinets, of which one had belonged to Beaumarchais and the other to the Appartement du Dauphin at Versailles.

Daphne restrained herself for a time, asked questions, and affected no special knowledge.  Then, at a pause, she lifted a careless hand, inquiring whether “the Fragonard sketch” opposite were not the pendant of one ­she named it ­at Berlin.

“Ah-h-h!” said Mrs. Fairmile, with a smiling shake of the head, “how clever of you!  But that’s not a Fragonard.  I wish it were.  It’s an unknown.  Dr. Lelius has given him a name.”

And she and Lelius fell into a discussion of the drawing, that soon left Daphne behind.  Native taste of the finest, mingled with the training of a lifetime, the intimate knowledge of collections of one who had lived among them from her childhood ­these things had long since given Chloe Fairmile a kind of European reputation.  Daphne stumbled after her, consumed with angry envy, the précieuse in her resenting the easy mastery of Mrs. Fairmile, and the wife in her offended by the strange beauty, the soft audacities of a woman who had once, it seemed, held Roger captive, and would, of course, like to hold him captive again.

She burned in some way to assert herself, the imperious will chafing at the slender barrier of self-control.  And some malicious god did, in fact, send an opportunity.

After tea, when Roger, in spite of efforts to confine himself to the Duchess, had been once more drawn into the orbit of Mrs. Fairmile, as she sat fingering a cigarette between the two men, and gossiping of people and politics, the butler entered, and whispered a message to the Duchess.

The mistress of the house laughed.  “Chloe! who do you think has called?  Old Marcus, of South Audley Street.  He’s been at Brendon House ­buying up their Romneys, I should think.  And as he was passing here, he wished to show me something.  Shall we have him in?”

“By all means!  The last time he was here he offered you four thousand pounds for the blue Nattier,” said Chloe, with a smile, pointing to the picture.

The Duchess gave orders; and an elderly man, with long black hair, swarthy complexion, fine eyes, and a peaked forehead, was admitted, and greeted by her, Mrs. Fairmile, and Dr. Lelius as an old acquaintance.  He sat down beside them, was given tea, and presented to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes.  Daphne, who knew the famous dealer by sight and reputation perfectly well, was piqued that he did not recognize her.  Yet she well remembered having given him an important commission not more than a year before her marriage.

As soon as a cup of tea had been dispatched, Marcus came to the business.  He drew a small leather case out of the bag he had brought into the room with him; and the case, being opened, disclosed a small but marvellous piece of Sèvres.

“There!” he said, pointing triumphantly to a piece on the Duchess’s chimney-piece.  “Your Grace asked me ­oh! ten years ago ­and again last year ­to find you the pair of that.  Now ­you have it!”

He put the two together, and the effect was great.  The Duchess looked at it with greed ­the greed of the connoisseur.  But she shook her head.

“Marcus, I have no money.”

“Oh!” He protested, smiling and shrugging his shoulders.

“And I know you want a brigand’s price for it.”

“Oh, nothing ­nothing at all.”

The Duchess took it up, and regretfully turned it round and round.

“A thousand, Marcus?” she said, looking up.

He laughed, and would not reply.

“That means more, Marcus:  how do you imagine that an old woman like me, with only just enough for bread and butter, can waste her money on Sèvres?” He grinned.  She put it down resolutely.  “No!  I’ve got a consumptive nephew with a consumptive family.  He ought to have been hung for marrying, but I’ve got to send them all to Davos this winter.  No, I can’t, Marcus; I can’t ­I’m too poor.”  But her eyes caressed the shining thing.

Daphne bent forward.  “If the Duchess has really made up her mind, Mr.
Marcus, I will take it.  It would just suit me!”

Marcus started on his chair. “Pardon, Madame!” he said, turning hastily to look at the slender lady in white, of whom he had as yet taken no notice.

“We have the motor.  We can take it with us,” said Daphne, stretching out her hand for it triumphantly.

“Madame,” said Marcus, in some agitation, “I have not the honour.  The price ­”

“The price doesn’t matter,” said Daphne, smiling.  “You know me quite well, Mr. Marcus.  Do you remember selling a Louis Seize cabinet to Miss Floyd?”

“Ah!” The dealer was on his feet in a moment, saluting, excusing himself.  Daphne heard him with graciousness.  She was now the centre of the situation:  she had asserted herself, and her money.  Marcus outdid himself in homage.  Lelius in the background looked on, a sarcastic smile hidden by his fair moustache.  Mrs. Fairmile, too, smiled; Roger had grown rather hot; and the Duchess was frankly annoyed.

“I surrender it to force majeure,” she said, as Daphne took it from her.  “Why are we not all Americans?”

And then, leaning back in her chair, she would talk no more.  The pleasure of the visit, so far as it had ever existed, was at an end.

But before the Barnes motor departed homewards, Mrs. Fairmile had again found means to carry Roger Barnes out of sight and hearing into the garden.  Roger had not been able to avoid it; and Daphne, hugging the leather case, had, all the same, to look on.

When they were once more alone together, speeding through the bright sunset air, each found the other on edge.

“You were rather rough on the Duchess, Daphne!” Roger protested.  “It wasn’t quite nice, was it, outbidding her like that in her own house?”

Daphne flared up at once, declaring that she wanted no lessons in deportment from him or anyone else, and then demanding fiercely what was the meaning of his two disappearances with Mrs. Fairmile.  Whereupon Roger lost his temper still more decidedly, refusing to give any account of himself, and the drive passed in a continuous quarrel, which only just stopped short, on Daphne’s side, of those outrageous and insulting things which were burning at the back of her tongue, while she could not as yet bring herself to say them.

An unsatisfactory peace was patched up during the evening.  But in the dead of night Daphne sat up in bed, looking at the face and head of her husband beside her on the pillow.  He lay peacefully sleeping, the noble outline of brow and features still nobler in the dim light which effaced all the weaker, emptier touches.  Daphne felt rising within her that mingled passion of the jealous woman, which is half love, half hate, of which she had felt the first stirrings in her early jealousy of Elsie Maddison.  It was the clutch of something racial and inherited ­a something which the Northerner hardly knows.  She had felt it before on one or two occasions, but not with this intensity.  The grace of Chloe Fairmile haunted her memory, and the perfection, the corrupt perfection of her appeal to men, men like Roger.

She must wring from him ­she must and would ­a much fuller history of his engagement.  And of those conversations in the garden, too.  It stung her to recollect that, after all, he had given her no account of them.  She had been sure they had not been ordinary conversations! ­Mrs. Fairmile was not the person to waste her time in chit-chat.

A gust of violence swept through her.  She had given Roger everything ­money, ease, amusement.  Where would he have been without her?  And his mother, too? ­tiresome, obstructive woman!  For the first time that veil of the unspoken, that mist of loving illusion which preserves all human relations, broke down between Daphne and her marriage.  Her thoughts dwelt, in a vulgar detail, on the money she had settled upon Roger ­on his tendencies to extravagance ­his happy-go-lucky self-confident ways.  He would have been a pauper but for her; but now that he had her money safe, without a word to her of his previous engagement, he and Mrs. Fairmile might do as they pleased.  The heat and corrosion of this idea spread through her being, and the will made no fight against it.