From that day, wherever there was a sufficiently important crowd to see her, Mrs. Nevill Tyson was to be seen.  She was generally with Louis Stanistreet, who was not a figure to be overlooked; she was always exquisitely dressed; and sometimes, not often, she was delicately painted and powdered.  Mrs. Nevill Tyson hated what was commonplace and loud; and she had to make herself conspicuous in a season when women dressed fortissimo, and a fashionable crowd was like a bed of flowers in June.  Somehow she managed to strike some resonant minor chord of color that went throbbing through that confused orchestra.  Everywhere she went people turned and stared at her as she flashed by; and apparently her one object was to be stared at.  She became as much of a celebrity as any woman with a character and without a position “in society” can become.  If she were counterfeiting a type, enough of the original Mrs. Nevill Tyson remained to give her own supernatural naeivete to the character.  Stanistreet was completely puzzled by this new freak; it looked like recklessness, it looked like vanity, it looked—­it looked like an innocent parody of guilt.  He had given in to her whim, as he had given In to every wish of hers, but he was not quite sure that he liked the frankness, the publicity of the thing.  He wondered how so small a woman contrived to attract so large a share of attention in a city where pretty women were as common as paving-stones.  Perhaps it was partly owing to the persistence and punctuality of her movements:  she patronized certain theatres, haunted certain thoroughfares at certain times.  She had an affection for Piccadilly, a sentiment for Oxford Circus, and a passion for the Strand.  Louis could sympathize with these preferences; he, too, liked to walk up and down the Embankment in the summer twilight—­though why such abrupt stoppages?  Why such impetuous speed?  He could understand a human being finding a remote interest in the Houses of Parliament, but he could not understand why Mrs. Nevill Tyson should love to linger outside the doors of the War Office.

Her ways were indeed inscrutable; but he had learnt to know them all, not a gesture escaped him.  How well he knew the turn of her head and the sudden flash of her face as they entered a theatre, and her eyes swept the house, eager, expectant, dubious; how well he knew the excited touch on his sleeve, the breath half-drawn, the look that was a confidence and an enigma; knew, too, the despondent droop of her eyes when the play was done and it was all over; the tightening of her hand upon his arm, and the shrinking of the whole tiny figure as they made their way out through the crowd.  She had spirit enough for anything; but her nerves were all on edge—­she was so easily tired, so easily startled.

Day after day, and night after night; it was evident that at this rate she and Tyson were bound to see each other some time, somewhere.  Stanistreet wondered whether that thought had ever occurred to her.  And if they met—­well, he could not tell whether he desired or feared to see that meeting.  In all probability it would put an end to doubt.  Was it possible that he had begun to love doubt for its own sake?