Yours sincerely,

Marcus Harding.

As soon as he had read this communication, Malling realized that he had been right in his supposition that a new reserve was growing up in Henry Chichester.  He was aware of Chichester’s reserve in the letter of the rector.  He was aware, too, of the latter’s situation as he had never been aware of it before.  Often a trifle illuminates a life, as a search-light brings some distant place from the darkness into a fierce radiance that makes it seem near.  So it was now.

“Poor Harding!” thought Malling, with an unusual softness.  “But this letter comes too late.”

What answer should he return to the rector?  He hated insincerity, but on this occasion he stooped to it.  He had not only the fear of Stepton upon him; he had also the desire not to add to the deep misery of Marcus Harding.  This was his answer: 

Cadogan Square, June —.

Dear Mr. Harding:

In reply to your letter, I will not now repeat our conversation of the other evening to Professor Stepton.  He is, as you say, a man of the highest discretion, and should you feel inclined yourself to take him into your confidence at any time, I think you will not regret it.

Yours sincerely,

Evelyn Malling.

As he put this note into an envelope, Malling said to himself: 

“Some day I’ll let him know I deceived him; I’ll let him know I had already told the professor.”

Two or three days later Malling heard of the professor having been at a party in Piccadilly at which Lady Sophia was a guest.

“And do you know, really,”—­Malling’s informant, a lively married woman, concluded,—­“those old scientific men are quite as bad as any of the boys who only want to have a good time.  The professor sat in Lady Sophia’s pocket the whole evening!  Literally in her pocket!”

“I didn’t know modern women had pockets,” returned Malling.

“They don’t, of course; but you know what I mean.”

Malling understood that the professor was beginning his “approach.”

A week went by, and at a man’s dinner, Malling chanced to sit next to Blandford Sikes, one of the most noted physicians of the day.  In the course of conversation the doctor remarked: 

“Is your friend Stepton going to set up in Harley Street?”

“Not that I know of,” said Malling.  “What makes you ask?”

“He came to consult me the other day, and when I told him he was as sound as Big Ben he sat with me for over half an hour pumping me unmercifully on the subject of nervous dyspepsia.  The patient who followed, and who happened to be a clergyman, looked fairly sick when he was let in at last.”