fellow indeed, thoroughly good and gentlemanly, in her opinion, was yet a minor poet, and therefore a pronounced ass.  Trefusis, on the contrary, was the last man of her acquaintance whom she would have thought of as a very nice fellow or a virtuous gentleman; but he was not an ass, although he was obstinate in his Socialistic fads.  She had indeed suspected him of weakness almost asinine with respect to Gertrude, but then all men were asses in their dealings with women, and since he had transferred his weakness to her own account it no longer seemed to need justification.  And now, as her concern for Erskine, whom she pitied, wore off, she began to resent Trefusis’s journey with Gertrude as an attack on her recently acquired monopoly of him.  There was an air of aristocratic pride about Gertrude which Agatha had formerly envied, and which she still feared Trefusis might mistake for an index of dignity and refinement.  Agatha did not believe that her resentment was the common feeling called jealousy, for she still deemed herself unique, but it gave her a sense of meanness that did not improve her spirits.

The dinner was dull.  Lady Brandon spoke in an undertone, as if someone lay dead in the next room.  Erskine was depressed by the consciousness of having lost his head and acted foolishly in the afternoon.  Sir Charles did not pretend to ignore the suspense they were all in pending intelligence of the journey to London; he ate and drank and said nothing.  Agatha, disgusted with herself and with Gertrude, and undecided whether to be disgusted with Trefusis or to trust him affectionately, followed the example of her host.  After dinner she accompanied him in a series of songs by Schubert.  This proved an aggravation instead of a relief.  Sir Charles, excelling in the expression of melancholy, preferred songs of that character; and as his musical ideas, like those of most Englishmen, were founded on what he had heard in church in his childhood, his style was oppressively monotonous.  Agatha took the first excuse that presented itself to leave the piano.  Sir Charles felt that his performance had been a failure, and remarked, after a cough or two, that he had caught a touch of cold returning from the station.  Erskine sat on a sofa with his head drooping, and his palms joined and hanging downward between his knees.  Agatha stood at the window, looking at the late summer afterglow.  Jane yawned, and presently broke the silence.

“You look exactly as you used at school, Agatha.  I could almost fancy us back again in Number Six.”

Agatha shook her head.

“Do I ever look like that—­like myself, as I used to be?”

“Never,” said Agatha emphatically, turning and surveying the figure of which Miss Carpenter had been the unripe antecedent.

“But why?” said Jane querulously.  “I don’t see why I shouldn’t.  I am not so changed.”

“You have become an exceedingly fine woman, Jane,” said Agatha gravely, and then, without knowing why, turned her attentive gaze upon Sir Charles, who bore it uneasily, and left the room.  A minute later he returned with two buff envelopes in his hand.