George rose also, but slowly.

“All that doesn’t explain why she didn’t ask us up,” said he.

But in his heart he thought he knew why Miss Wheeler hadn’t asked them up.  The reason was that she maliciously wanted to tantalize him, George.  She had roused his curiosity about Lois, and then she had said to herself:  “You think you’re going to see her to-night, but you just aren’t.”  Such, according to George, was Irene Wheeler the illustrious.  He reflected on the exasperating affair until he had undressed and got into bed.  But as soon as he had put out the light Marguerite appeared before him, and at the back of her were the examiners for the Final.  He slept ill.

CHAPTER VII

THE RUPTURE

I

During the whole of the next day George waited for a letter from Marguerite.  There was nothing at the club by the first post; he went to the office, hoping that as he had addressed his telegram from Russell Square she might have written to Russell Square; there was nothing at Russell Square.  At lunch-time no word had arrived at the club; when the office closed no word had arrived at the office; the last post brought nothing to the club.  He might have sent another telegram to Alexandra Grove, but he was too proud to do so.  He dined alone and most miserably at the club.  Inspired by unhappiness and resentment, he resolved to go to bed; in bed he might read himself to sleep.  But in the hall of the club his feet faltered.  Perhaps it was the sight of hats and sticks that made him vacillate, or a glimpse of reluctantly dying silver in the firmament over Candle Court.  He wavered; he stood still at the foot of the stairs.  The next moment he was in the street.  He had decided to call on Agg at the studio.  Agg might have the clue to Marguerite’s astounding conduct, though he had it not.  He took a hansom, after saying he would walk; he was too impatient for walking.  Possibly Marguerite would be at the studio; possibly a letter of hers had miscarried; letters did miscarry.  He was in a state of peculiar excitement as he paid the cabman—­an enigma to himself.

The studio was quite dark.  Other studios showed lights, but not Agg’s.  From one studio came the sound of a mandolin—­he thought it was a mandolin—­and the sound seemed pathetic, tragic, to his ears.  Agg was perhaps in bed; he might safely arouse her; she would not object.  But no!  He would not do that.  Pride again!  It would be too humiliating for him, the affianced, to have to ask Agg:  “I say, do you know anything about Marguerite?” The affianced ought to be the leading authority as to the doings of Marguerite.  He turned away, walked a little, and perceived the cabman swinging himself cautiously down from his perch in order to enter a public-house.  He turned back.  Marguerite too might be in bed at the studio.  Or the girls might be sitting in the dark, talking—­a