stare at her, afflicted by the thought that where Beauty
was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which, no doubt, was why so many
people looked on it as immoral.

"What more?"

"He asked me to shake hands.

"Did you?"

"Yes. When he came in I'm sure he didn't want to; he changed while he
was there."

"Ah! you certainly ought not to go on living there alone."

"I know no woman I could ask; and I can't take a lover to order, Cousin
Jolyon."

"Heaven forbid!" said Jolyon. "What a damnable position! Will you stay
to dinner? No? Well, let me see you back to town; I wanted to go up
this evening."

"Truly?"

"Truly. I'll be ready in five minutes."

On that walk to the station they talked of pictures and music,
contrasting the English and French characters and the difference in their
attitude to Art. But to Jolyon the colours in the hedges of the long
straight lane, the twittering of chaffinches who kept pace with them, the
perfume of weeds being already burned, the turn of her neck, the
fascination of those dark eyes bent on him now and then, the lure of her
whole figure, made a deeper impression than the remarks they exchanged.
Unconsciously he held himself straighter, walked with a more elastic
step.

In the train he put her through a sort of catechism as to what she did
with her days.

Made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano,
translated from the French.

She had regular work from a publisher, it seemed, which supplemented her
income a little. She seldom went out in the evening. "I've been living
alone so long, you see, that I don't mind it a bit. I believe I'm
naturally solitary."

"I don't believe that," said Jolyon. "Do you know many people?"

"Very few."

At Waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door of her
mansions. Squeezing her hand at parting, he said:

"You know, you could always come to us at Robin Hill; you must let me
know everything that happens. Good-bye, Irene."

"Good-bye," she answered softly.

Jolyon climbed back into his cab, wondering why he had not asked her to
dine and go to the theatre with him. Solitary, starved, hung-up life
that she had! "Hotch Potch Club," he said through the trap-door. As his
hansom debouched on to the Embankment, a man in top-hat and overcoat
passed, walking quickly, so close to the wall that he seemed to be
scraping it.

'By Jove!' thought Jolyon; 'Soames himself! What's he up to now?' And,