May’s blush remained permanently vivid:  it seemed to have a significance beyond that implied by the recognition of Madame Olenska’s social bad faith.

“I’ve no doubt we all seem alike to foreigners,” said Miss Jackson tartly.

“I don’t think Ellen cares for society; but nobody knows exactly what she does care for,” May continued, as if she had been groping for something noncommittal.

“Ah, well—­” Mrs. Archer sighed again.

Everybody knew that the Countess Olenska was no longer in the good graces of her family.  Even her devoted champion, old Mrs. Manson Mingott, had been unable to defend her refusal to return to her husband.  The Mingotts had not proclaimed their disapproval aloud:  their sense of solidarity was too strong.  They had simply, as Mrs. Welland said, “let poor Ellen find her own level”—­and that, mortifyingly and incomprehensibly, was in the dim depths where the Blenkers prevailed, and “people who wrote” celebrated their untidy rites.  It was incredible, but it was a fact, that Ellen, in spite of all her opportunities and her privileges, had become simply “Bohemian.”  The fact enforced the contention that she had made a fatal mistake in not returning to Count Olenski.  After all, a young woman’s place was under her husband’s roof, especially when she had left it in circumstances that . . . well . . . if one had cared to look into them . . .

“Madame Olenska is a great favourite with the gentlemen,” said Miss Sophy, with her air of wishing to put forth something conciliatory when she knew that she was planting a dart.

“Ah, that’s the danger that a young woman like Madame Olenska is always exposed to,” Mrs. Archer mournfully agreed; and the ladies, on this conclusion, gathered up their trains to seek the carcel globes of the drawing-room, while Archer and Mr. Sillerton Jackson withdrew to the Gothic library.

Once established before the grate, and consoling himself for the inadequacy of the dinner by the perfection of his cigar, Mr. Jackson became portentous and communicable.

“If the Beaufort smash comes,” he announced, “there are going to be disclosures.”

Archer raised his head quickly:  he could never hear the name without the sharp vision of Beaufort’s heavy figure, opulently furred and shod, advancing through the snow at Skuytercliff.

“There’s bound to be,” Mr. Jackson continued, “the nastiest kind of a cleaning up.  He hasn’t spent all his money on Regina.”

“Oh, well—­that’s discounted, isn’t it?  My belief is he’ll pull out yet,” said the young man, wanting to change the subject.

“Perhaps—­perhaps.  I know he was to see some of the influential people today.  Of course,” Mr. Jackson reluctantly conceded, “it’s to be hoped they can tide him over—­this time anyhow.  I shouldn’t like to think of poor Regina’s spending the rest of her life in some shabby foreign watering-place for bankrupts.”