“But surely, sooner or later——­”

“Ah!  After they are married, conceivably.  That would be quite different,” he admitted, with cheerfulness.  “And now,” he smiled, “I’m afraid I’ve got to go and write the case up for London.  I can catch the mail, I think.  If not, I must cable.  But they hate me to cable when the mail is possible.  Can I drop you anywhere?”

Simultaneously he signalled to a taxi and knocked on the window for the attendance of the waiter.

“Thanks.  If you’re going anywhere near the Place de l’Opera,” said George.

VI

He was excited, rather than saddened, by the tragic event.  He was indeed very excited.  And also he had a deep satisfaction, because it seemed to him that he had at last been truly admitted into the great secret fellowship of adult males.  The initiation flattered his pride.  He left Mr. Ingram at the door of an English newspaper office in the Boulevard des Italiens, and, after vainly asking for telegrams at the hotel, walked away, aimlessly at first, along broad pavements encumbered with the chairs and tables of vast, crowded cafes, and with bright Sunday idlers and sinister street-vendors.  But in a moment he had decided that he must and ought to pay a call in the Rue d’Athenes.  Mr. Ingram had said nothing about his seeing Lois again, had not referred to Mrs. Ingram’s invitation to repeat his visit, might even vaguely object to an immediate interview between him and Lois.  Yet he could not, as a man of the world, abandon Lois so unceremoniously.  He owed something to Lois and he owed something to himself.  And he was a free adult.  The call was natural and necessary, and if Mr. Ingram did not like it he must, in the Five Towns phrase, lump it.  George set off to find the Rue d’Athenes unguided.  It was pleasurable to think that there was a private abode in the city of cafes, hotels, and museums to which he had the social right of entry.

The watching concierge of the house nodded to him politely as he began to mount the stairs.  The Ingrams’ servant smiled upon him as upon an old and familiarly respected friend.

“Mademoiselle Lois?” he said, with directness.

The slatternly, benevolent girl widened her mouth still further in a smile still more cordial, and led him to the drawing-room.  As she did so she picked up a newspaper packet that lay on a table in the tiny hall, and, without putting it on a salver, deposited it in front of Lois, who was alone in the drawing-room.  George wondered what Lois would have thought of such an outrage upon established ritual had it happened to her in the home of Irene Wheeler instead of in her own; and then the imagined vision of Irene lying dead in the sumptuous home in the Avenue Hoche seemed to render all established ritual absurd.

“So you’ve come!” exclaimed Lois harshly.  “Mother’s quite knocked over, and Laurencine’s looking after her.  All the usual eau-de-Cologne business.  And I should say father’s not much better.  My poor parents!  What did dad want you for?”