t, but circumstances may render it permanent. Then Geraldine
wrote again, and asked Henry to tea at the flat in Chenies Street on a
Saturday afternoon. Henry went, and found the flat closed. He expected
to receive a note of bewitching, cajoling, feminine apology, but he did
not receive it. They met again, always at Kenilworth Mansions, and in an
interview full of pain at the start and full of insincerity at the
finish Henry learnt that Geraldine's invitation had been for Sunday, and
not Saturday, that various people of much importance in her eyes had
been asked to meet him, and that the company was deeply disappointed and
the hostess humiliated. Henry was certain that she had written Saturday.
Geraldine was certain that he had misread the day. He said nothing about
confronting her with the letter itself, but he determined, in his
masculine way, to do so. She gracefully pretended that the incident was
closed, and amicably closed, but the silly little thing had got into her
head the wild, inexcusable idea that Henry had stayed away from her 'at
home' on purpose, and Henry felt this.

He rushed to Dawes Road to find the letter, but the letter was
undiscoverable; with the spiteful waywardness which often characterizes
such letters, it had disappeared. So Henry thought it would be as well
to leave the incident alone. Their cheery politeness to each other when
they chanced to meet was affecting to witness. As for Henry, he had
always suspected in Geraldine the existence of some element, some
quality, some factor, which was beyond his comprehension, and now his
suspicions were confirmed.

He fell into a habit of saying, in his inmost heart: 'Women!'

This meant that he had learnt all that was knowable about them, and that
they were all alike, and that--the third division of the meaning was
somewhat vague.

Just as he was ascending with the beautiful flunkey in the Kenilworth
lift, a middle-aged and magnificently-dressed woman hastened into the
marble hall from the street, and, seeing the lift in the act of
vanishing with its precious burden, gave a slight scream and then a
laugh. The beautiful flunkey permitted himself a derisive gesture, such
as one male may make to another, and sped the lift more quickly upwards.

'Who's she?' Henry demanded.

'_I_ don't know, sir,' said the flunkey. 'But you'll hear her
ting-tinging at the bell in half a second. There!' he added in
triumphant disgust, as the lift-bell rang impatiently