ilip drives away down the hill, and Eleanor thinks regretfully of the
pleasant times she used to spend chatting with Giddy.

Now she must go to town alone. Eleanor is quite weary of her own
society by the time she arrives at Madame Faustine's in Bond Street.

She wonders if Carol received the little note she penned in such
trepidation yesterday, imploring him to spare her the passionate scenes
in which he indulged the previous evening. She asked him in the most
pathetic terms never to cross her path in life again, because she was
only a weak little woman, and ended by saying she would be at 19, Bond
Street, the next morning, and hoped not to run across that horrid Mrs.
Mounteagle.

As she is bowed out by an elegant maiden in black satin, a hand is laid
on her arm, a sense of exhilaration possesses her, while Mr. Quinton's
melodious voice whispers "Eleanor" in her ear.

"I asked you not to," she says feebly, ill concealing her pleasurable
surprise.

"But you laid temptation in my way, and it was strong." he answers.

She recalls his passionate words breathed in the firelight, the words
that held her paralysed, and seemed in a single syllable to divorce her
from her husband.

"What are we going to do?" asks Carol.

"_We_! I must return to Lyndhurst and boredom. An old lady at
Twickenham Park has asked me to tea this afternoon, and I have to
interview a kitchen-maid at half-past two."

Her voice is a little hard, there is a ring of sarcasm and rebellion in
it that is strange to Eleanor.

"Have you ever been to the Savoy?"

"No."

"Let us lunch there, it is past one," urges Carol Quinton.

He hails a hansom, though Eleanor is reluctant.

"I really can't," she whispered.

"There is no harm, dear," he replies persuasively.

The cabman is watching her; she feels confused, uncertain.

Then his influence is too strong, and Eleanor succumbs.

Where is the harm? She is a married woman, she can go if she pleases.

He helps her into the hansom, and they spin away.

"Do you remember last time we drove together?" he asks.

"Yes, from the Butterflies' Club."

"It was dark then, Eleanor."

Her eyes droop, an embarrassed flush dyes her cheek.

"I am Mrs. Roche," she stammers.

"But 'Eleanor' is such a beautiful name, so queenly. You have poisoned
all my happiness since the fatal night when I first saw you."

"I would willingly give it back, every shred of shattered joy, if I
could."

"You could if