'!" he told himself savagely) to the
distant intimacy of "Your friend Beatrice Blair," it was unsatisfying to
a devoted adherent of romance. Yet what else could he ask for? He was
not in love--no! he was not in love, for there was a husband! Besides,
Beatrice would be the last person to lead him on when.... Stay! there
had been temptation on her part in the cab and in the dressing-room.
Yes, there _had_; there was no sense in pretending to himself that there
had been no encouragement: there _had_. Charity (a word, by the way,
which the Revised Version has altered to "Love") on the instant said:
"Coxcomb! She led you on to engage your services for Lukos. A pardonable
deception." "Very well," grumbled Lionel, admitting the justice of the
argument, "let it be so. But it seems a little rough on...?"

Leaving this, he turned to other items, trying to read some new shades
of meaning into the too-well-remembered words. She was working
hard--good: she was fairly happy--good: he must stay where he was--good:
watching--good: Lukos--Lukos--again Lukos ... h'm ... yes,
good--certainly good. The beggar was her husband, after all.
Good. The sister was pretty--a smile: he must be on his
guard ... h'm ... perfidy ... a traitor ... of prepossessing
appearance ... could she be ... jealous?

"Coxcomb!" said reason again: "look at the end--'Your _friend_.' Then,
too, there is 'another proposal ... such a nice man.' Jealousy? Ha! ha!"
Lionel swallowed the pill with a bad grace and put the letter away.

He had been at The Quiet House for a little more than a fortnight, and
up to the present he had achieved nothing. Mizzi had made no sign, the
ambassador was invisible, no further instructions had come from
Beatrice. Yet he had been interested and amused, studying the character
of his hostess and waiting, Micawber-like, for something to turn up.

His position was the oddest conceivable. Since Beatrice's telegram ("She
introduces you," said Miss Arkwright, "at the price of five and
threepence. You must be an exceptional man!") he had been more than a
guest, almost an old acquaintance. He had been accepted without
question, treated as an equal, hall-marked with the stamp of an
Arkwright's approval, because the Arkwrights, it appeared, prided
themselves on their hospitality. It was not for the sake of Beatrice
alone that he received so warm a welcome: she was a lady to be mentioned
with reserve, being "on the stage." But she was an Arkwright,