bills had furnished material for those frequently recurring scenes of recrimination, and the Colonial outfitters, where, as he had phrased it in whimsical mockery, he had bought grave-clothes for his burying-alive.  The “oubliette!” She remembered the bitter petulant name he had flung at his destined exile.  There at least he had been harder on himself than the Fates were pleased to will; never, as long as Francesca lived and had a brain that served her, would she be able to forget.  That narcotic would never be given to her.  Unrelenting, unsparing memory would be with her always to remind her of those last days of tragedy.  Already her mind was dwelling on the details of that ghastly farewell dinner-party and recalling one by one the incidents of ill-omen that had marked it; how they had sat down seven to table and how one liqueur glass in the set of seven had been shivered into fragments; how her glass had slipped from her hand as she raised it to her lips to wish Comus a safe return; and the strange, quiet hopelessness of Lady Veula’s “good-bye”; she remembered now how it had chilled and frightened her at the moment.

The park was filling again with its floating population of loiterers, and Francesca’s footsteps began to take a homeward direction.  Something seemed to tell her that the message for which she waited had arrived and was lying there on the hall table.  Her brother, who had announced his intention of visiting her early in the afternoon would have gone by now; he knew nothing of this morning’s bad news—­the instinct of a wounded animal to creep away by itself had prompted her to keep her sorrow from him as long as possible.  His visit did not necessitate her presence; he was bringing an Austrian friend, who was compiling a work on the Franco-Flemish school of painting, to inspect the Van der Meulen, which Henry Greech hoped might perhaps figure as an illustration in the book.  They were due to arrive shortly after lunch, and Francesca had left a note of apology, pleading an urgent engagement elsewhere.  As she turned to make her way across the Mall into the Green Park a gentle voice hailed her from a carriage that was just drawing up by the sidewalk.  Lady Caroline Benaresq had been favouring the Victoria Memorial with a long unfriendly stare.

“In primitive days,” she remarked, “I believe it was the fashion for great chiefs and rulers to have large numbers of their relatives and dependents killed and buried with them; in these more enlightened times we have invented quite another way of making a great Sovereign universally regretted.  My dear Francesca,” she broke off suddenly, catching the misery that had settled in the other’s eyes, “what is the matter?  Have you had bad news from out there?”

“I am waiting for very bad news,” said Francesca, and Lady Caroline knew what had happened.

“I wish I could say something; I can’t.”  Lady Caroline spoke in a harsh, grunting voice that few people had ever heard her use.