abstracted, listless, and utterly desolate.  All day he had gone over again and again the details of the interview with Mr. Haim, his telegram to Marguerite and her unspeakable telegram to him, hugging close a terrific grievance.  Only from pique against Marguerite had he accepted Lucas’s invitation.  The adventure in Piccadilly Circus had somewhat enlivened him, and now the fluttering prospect of acquaintance with the legendary Irene Wheeler pushed Marguerite into the background of his mind, and excitement became quite pleasant.  “And a Miss Ingram,” Lucas added.

“Not Lois Ingram?” exclaimed George, suddenly dragging the names of Ingram and Wheeler out of the same drawer of his memory.

“No.  Laurencine.  But she has a sister named Lois.  What do you know about her?” Lucas spoke challengingly, as if George had trespassed on preserves sacred to himself alone.  He had not yet admitted that it was merely Mrs. John Orgreave who had put him in the way of Irene Wheeler.

George was surprised and shocked that it had never occurred to him to identify Lois Ingram’s wealthy friend Miss Wheeler with the Irene Wheeler of society columns of newspapers.  And Lois Ingram rose in his esteem, not because of the distinction of her friend, but because she had laid no boastful stress on the distinction of her friend.

“Don’t you remember?” he said.  “I told you once about a girl who jolly nearly got me into a motor accident all through her fancying herself as a chauffeur.  That was Lois Ingram.  Paris girl.  Same lot, isn’t it?”

“Oh!  Was that Lois?” Lucas murmured.  “Well, I’m dashed!”

They returned in a hurry to the entrance-hall, fearful lest the ladies might have arrived.  However, the ladies had not arrived.  Lucas had the inexpressible satisfaction of finding in an illustrated weekly a full-page portrait of Miss Irene Wheeler.

“Here you are!” he ejaculated, with an air of use, as though he was habitually picking up from the tables of fashionable restaurants high-class illustrated papers containing portraits of renowned beauties to whom he said “Come!” and they came.  It was a great moment for Lucas.

Ten minutes later the ladies very calmly arrived, seeming perfectly unaware that they were three-quarters of an hour behind time.  Lucas felt that, much as he already knew about life, he had learned something fresh.

To George, Irene Wheeler was not immediately recognizable as the original of her portrait.  He saw the resemblance when he looked for it, but if after seeing the photograph he had met the woman in the street he would have passed her by unknowing.  At first he was disappointed in her.  He had never before encountered celebrated people—­except architects, who, Enwright always said, never could be really celebrated—­and he had to learn that celebrated people seldom differ in appearance from uncelebrated people.  Nevertheless it was not to be expected that George should escape