On their way home Stanistreet congratulated Tyson.

“By Jove! you’ve fallen on your feet, Tyson.  They tell me Miss Batchelor is interested in you.”

“I am not interested in Miss Batchelor.  Who is she?”

“She is only Miss Batchelor of Meriden Court—­the richest land-owner in Leicestershire.”

“Good heavens!  Why doesn’t somebody marry her?”

“Miss Batchelor, they say, is much too clever for that.”

“Is she?” And Tyson laughed, a little brutally.

* * * * *

Of course everybody called on the eccentric newcomer when they saw that the Morleys had taken him up.  But before they had time to ask each other to meet him, Mr. Nevill Tyson had imported his own society from Putney or Bohemia, or some of those places.

That was his first mistake.

The next was his marriage.  In fact, for a man in Tyson’s insecure position, it was more than a mistake; it was madness.  He ought to have married some powerful woman like Miss Batchelor, a woman with ideas and money and character, to say nothing of an inviolable social reputation.  But men like Tyson never do what they ought.  Miss Batchelor was clever, and he hated clever women.  So he married Molly Wilcox.  Molly Wilcox was nineteen; she had had no education, and, what was infinitely worse, she had a vulgar mother.  And as Mr. Wilcox might be considered a negligible quantity, the chances were that she would take after her mother.

The mystery was how Tyson ever came to know these people.  Mr. Wilcox was a student and an invalid; moreover, he was excessively morose.  He would not have called, and even Mrs. Wilcox could hardly have called without him.  Scandal-mongers said that Tyson struck up an acquaintance with the girl and her mother in a railway carriage somewhere between Drayton and St. Pancras, and had called on the strength of it.  It did great credit to his imagination that he could see the makings of Mrs. Nevill Tyson in Molly Wilcox, dressed according to her mother’s taste, with that hair of hers all curling into her eyes in front, and rumpled up anyhow behind.  However, though I daresay his introduction was a little informal and obscure, there was every reason for the intimacy that followed.  The Wilcoxes were unpopular; so, by this time, was Tyson.  In cultivating him Mrs. Wilcox felt that she was doing something particularly esoteric and rather daring.  She had taken a line.  She loved everything that was a little flagrant, a little out of the common, and a little dubious.  To a lady with these tastes Tyson was a godsend; he more than satisfied her desire for magnificence and mystery.  For economical reasons Mrs. Wilcox’s body was compelled to live with Mr. Wilcox in a cottage in Drayton Parva; but her soul dwelt continually in a side-street in Bayswater, in a region haunted by the shabby-refined, the shabby-smart, and the innocently risky.  Mrs. Wilcox, I maintain, was as innocent