ordered to wear.  But when the deuce is she alone?  It’s herself of course that she has swindled worst:  she has put herself off, so insanely that even her conceit but half accounts for it, with little inadequate concessions, little false measures and preposterous evasions and childish hopes.  Her great terror is now that Iffield, who already has suspicions, who has found out her pince-nez but whom she has beguiled with some unblushing hocus-pocus, may discover the dreadful facts; and the essence of what she wanted this morning was in that interest to square me, to get me to deny indignantly and authoritatively (for isn’t she my ‘favourite sitter?’) that she has anything in life the matter with any part of her.  She sobbed, she ‘went on,’ she entreated; after we got talking her extraordinary nerve left her and she showed me what she has been through—­showed me also all her terror of the harm I could do her.  ’Wait till I’m married! wait till I’m married!’ She took hold of me, she almost sank on her knees.  It seems to me highly immoral, one’s participation in her fraud; but there’s no doubt that she must be married:  I don’t know what I don’t see behind it!  Therefore,” I wound up, “Dawling must keep his hands off.”

Mrs. Meldrum had held her breath; she gave out a long moan.  “Well, that’s exactly what I came here to tell him.”

“Then here he is.”  Our host, all unprepared, his latchkey still in his hand, had just pushed open the door and, startled at finding us, turned a frightened look from one to the other, wondering what disaster we were there to announce or avert.

Mrs. Meldrum was on the spot all gaiety.  “I’ve come to return your sweet visit.  Ah,” she laughed, “I mean to keep up the acquaintance!”

“Do—­do,” he murmured mechanically and absently, continuing to look at us.  Then he broke out:  “He’s going to marry her.”

I was surprised.  “You already know?”

He produced an evening paper, which he tossed down on the table.  “It’s in that.”

“Published—­already?” I was still more surprised.

“Oh Flora can’t keep a secret!”—­Mrs. Meldrum made it light.  She went up to poor Dawling and laid a motherly hand upon him.

“It’s all right—­it’s just as it ought to be:  don’t think about her ever any more.”  Then as he met this adjuration with a stare from which thought, and of the most defiant and dismal, fairly protruded, the excellent woman put up her funny face and tenderly kissed him on the cheek.

CHAPTER X