“So I’ve written to the Phase and dealt with it.”

“Did Wilfrid tell you to do that?”

“He did.”

“To publish that poem was crazy. ‘Quem deus—’” He suddenly caught sight of the expression on Compson Grice’s face. “Yes,” he added, bitterly, “you think you’ve got a scoop!”

Compson Grice said coldly:

“Whether it will do us harm or good remains to be seen.”

“Bosh!” said Michael. “Everybody will read the thing now, blast them! Have you seen Wilfrid today?”

“He lunched with me.”

“How’s he looking?”

Tempted to say ‘Like Asrael!’ Compson Grice substituted: “Oh! all right—quite calm.”

“Calm as hell! Look here, Grice! If you don’t stand by him and help him all you can through this, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“My dear fellow,” said Compson Grice, with some dignity, “what do you suppose?” And, straightening his waistcoat, he passed into the card room.

Michael, muttering, “Cold-blooded fish!” hurried in the direction of Cork Street. ‘I wonder if the old chap would like to see me,’ he thought.

But at the very mouth of the street he recoiled and made for Mount Street instead. He was informed that both his father and mother were out, but that Miss Dinny had come up that morning from Condaford.

“All right, Blore. If she’s in I’ll find her.”

He went up and opened the drawing-room door quietly. In the alcove, under the cage of her aunt’s parakeet, Dinny was sitting perfectly still and upright, like a little girl at a lesson, with her hands crossed on her lap and her eyes fixed on space. She did not see him till his hand was on her shoulder.

“Penny!”

“How does one learn not to commit murder, Michael?”

“Ah! Poisonous young brute! Have your people seen The Phase?”

Dinny nodded.

“What was the reaction?”

“Silence, pinched lips.”

Michael nodded.

“Poor dear! So you came up?”

“Yes, I’m going to the theatre with Wilfrid.”

“Give him my love, and tell him that if he wants to see me I’ll come at any moment. Oh! and, Dinny, try to make him feel that we admire him for spilling the milk.”

Dinny looked up, and he was moved by the expression on her face.

“It wasn’t all pride that made him, Michael. There’s something egging him on, and I’m afraid of it. Deep down he isn’t sure that it wasn’t just cowardice that made him renounce. I know he can’t get that thought out of his mind. He feels he’s got to prove, not to others so much as to himself, that he isn’t a coward. Oh! I know he isn’t. But so long as he hasn’t proved it to himself and everybody, I don’t know what he might do.”

Michael nodded. From his one interview with Wilfrid he had formed something of the same impression.

“Did you know that he’s told his publisher to make a public admission?”

“Oh!” said Dinny blankly. “What then?”

Michael shrugged.

“Michael, will anyone grasp the situation Wilfrid was in?”

“The imaginative type is rare. I don’t pretend I can grasp it. Can you?”

“Only because it happened to Wilfrid.”

Michael gripped her arm.

“I’m glad you’ve got the old-fashioned complaint, Dinny, not just this modern ‘physiological urge.’”

While Dinny was dressing her aunt came to her room.

“Your uncle read me that article, Dinny. I wonder!”

“What do you wonder, Aunt Em?”

“I knew a Coltham—but he died.”

“This one will probably die, too.”

“Where do you get your boned bodies, Dinny? So restful.”

“Harridge’s.”

“Your uncle says he ought to resign from his club.”

“Wilfrid doesn’t care two straws about his club; he probably hasn’t been in a dozen times. But I don’t think he’ll resign.”

“Better make him.”

“I should never dream of ‘making’ him do anything.”

“So awkward when they use black balls.”

“Auntie, dear, could I come to the glass?”

Lady Mont crossed the room and took up the slim volume from the bedside table.

“The Leopard! But he did change them, Dinny.”

“He did not, Auntie; he had no spots to change.”

“Baptism and that.”

“If baptism really meant anything, it would be an outrage on children till they knew what it was about.”

“Dinny!”

“I mean it. One doesn’t commit people to things entirely without their consent; it isn’t decent. By the time Wilfrid could think at all he had no religion.”

“It wasn’t the givin’ up, then, it was the takin’ on.”

“He knows that.”

“Well,” said Lady Mont, turning towards the door, “I think it served that Arab right; so intrudin’! If you want a latch-key, ask Blore.”

Dinny finished dressing quickly and ran downstairs. Blore was in the dining-room.

“Aunt Em says I may have a key, Blore, and I want a taxi, please.”

Having telephoned to the cab-stand and produced a key, the butler said: “What with her ladyship speaking her thoughts out loud, miss, I’m obliged to know, and I was saying to Sir Lawrence this morning: ‘If Miss Dinny could take him off just now, on a tour of the Scotch Highlands where they don’t see the papers, it would save a lot of vexation.’ In these days, miss, as you’ll have noticed, one thing comes on the top of another, and people haven’t the memories they had. You’ll excuse my mentioning it.”

“Thank you ever so, Blore. Nothing I’d like better; only I’m afraid he wouldn’t think it proper.”

“In these days a young LADY can do anything, miss.”

“But men still have to be careful, Blore.”

“Well, miss, of course, relatives are difficult; but it could be arranged.”

“I think we shall have to face the music.”

The butler shook his head.

“In my belief, whoever said that first is responsible for a lot of unnecessary unpleasantness. Here’s your taxi, miss.”

In the taxi she sat a little forward, getting the air from both windows on her cheeks, which needed cooling. Even the anger and vexation left by that review were lost in this sweeter effervescence. At the corner of Piccadilly she read a newspaper poster: “Derby horses arrive.” The Derby tomorrow! How utterly she had lost count of events! The restaurant chosen for their dinner was Blafard’s in Soho, and her progress was impeded by the traffic of a town on the verge of national holiday. At the door, with the spaniel held on a leash, stood Stack. He handed her a note: “Mr. Desert sent me with this, miss. I brought the dog for a walk.”

Dinny opened the note with a sensation of physical sickness.

It was all she could do not to put her hand on her heart under the driver’s eyes. Thus to be shut away in the heat of the battle was what, she knew now, she had been dreading all along. With an effort she controlled her lips, said “Wait a minute!” and turned to Stack.

“I’ll take you and Foch back.”

“Thank you, miss.”

She bent down to the dog. Panic was at work within her breast! The dog! He was a link between them!

“Put him into the cab, Stack.”

On the way she said quietly:

“Is Mr. Desert in?”

“No, miss, he went out when he gave me the note.”

“Is he all right?”

“A little worried, I think, miss. I must say I’d like to teach manners to that gentleman in The Daily Phase.”