Since then Erskine had been bent on writing another drama, without regard to the exigencies of the stage, but he had not yet begun it, in consequence of his inspiration coming upon him at inconvenient hours, chiefly late at night, when he had been drinking, and had leisure for sonnets only.  The morning air and bicycle riding were fatal to the vein in which poetry struck him as being worth writing.  In spite of the bicycle, however, the drama, which was to be entitled “Hypatia,” was now in a fair way to be written, for the poet had met and fallen in love with Gertrude Lindsay, whose almost Grecian features, and some knowledge of the different calculua which she had acquired at Alton, helped him to believe that she was a fit model for his heroine.

When the ladies came downstairs they found their host and Erskine in the picture gallery, famous in the neighborhood for the sum it had cost Sir Charles.  There was a new etching to be admired, and they were called on to observe what the baronet called its tones, and what Agatha would have called its degrees of smudginess.  Sir Charles’s attention often wandered from this work of art.  He looked at his watch twice, and said to his wife: 

“I have ordered them to be punctual with the luncheon.”

“Oh, yes; it’s all right,” said Lady Brandon, who had given orders that luncheon was not to be served until the arrival of another gentleman.  “Show Agatha the picture of the man in the—­”

“Mr. Trefusis,” said a servant.

Mr. Trefusis, still in snuff color, entered; coat unbuttoned and attention unconstrained; exasperatingly unconscious of any occasion for ceremony.

“Here you are at last,” said Lady Brandon.  “You know everybody, don’t you?”

“How do you do?” said Sir Charles, offering his hand as a severe expression of his duty to his wife’s guest, who took it cordially, nodded to Erskine, looked without recognition at Gertrude, whose frosty stillness repudiated Lady Brandon’s implication that the stranger was acquainted with her, and turned to Agatha, to whom he bowed.  She made no sign; she was paralyzed.  Lady Brandon reddened with anger.  Sir Charles noted his guest’s reception with secret satisfaction, but shared the embarrassment which oppressed all present except Trefusis, who seemed quite indifferent and assured, and unconsciously produced an impression that the others had not been equal to the occasion, as indeed they had not.

“We were looking at some etchings when you came in,” said Sir Charles, hastening to break the silence.  “Do you care for such things?” And he handed him a proof.

Trefusis looked at it as if he had never seen such a thing before and did not quite know what to make of it.  “All these scratches seem to me to have no meaning,” he said dubiously.

Sir Charles stole a contemptuous smile and significant glance at Erskine.  He, seized already with an instinctive antipathy to Trefusis, said emphatically: