They were still in this attitude, and the fact gave a certain tinge of embarrassment to their greetings, when the door opened, and Mrs. Lightmark was announced.

“I was on the point of going,” explained Charles nervously.  “I thought you were not coming, you know.”

Eve made no effort to detain him, half suspecting that she had appeared at a strenuous moment.  When the barrister had departed (Mary had just extended to him the tips of her frigid fingers), and Eve’s polite inquiries after Lady Garnett’s health had been satisfied, she remarked: 

“I really only came in for a cup of tea.  I walked across from Dorset Square.  I have sent the carriage to pick up my husband at his club:  it’s coming back for me.  You look tired, Mary.  I think I oughtn’t to stay.  You look as if you had been having a political afternoon.  Poor Charles, since he has been in the House, can think of nothing but blue-books.”

“Tired?” queried the girl listlessly; “no, not particularly.  Besides, I am always glad to see you, it happens so seldom.”

“Yes; except in a crowd.  One has never any time.  Have you heard, by the way, that my husband is one of the new Associates?”

She went on quickly, preventing Mary’s murmured congratulations: 

“Yes, they have elected him.  I suppose it is a very good thing.  He has his hands full of portraits now.”

Then she remarked inconsequently—­the rapidity with which she passed from topic to topic half surprised Mary, who did not remember the trait of old: 

“We are going to the theatre to-night—­that is to say, if my husband has been able to get seats.  It’s the first night of a new comedy.  I meant to ask you to come with us, only it was an uncertainty.  If the box is not forthcoming, you must come when we do go.  Only, of course, it will not be the premiere.”

“I should like to,” said Mary vaguely.  “I don’t care so much about first nights.  I like the theatre; but I go so seldom.  Aunt Marcelle does not care for English plays; she says they are like stale bread-and-butter.  I tell her that is not so bad.”

“The mot, you mean?”

“Partly; but also the thing.  Bread-and-butter is a change after a great many petits fours.”

Mrs. Lightmark smiled a little absently as she sat smoothing the creases out of her pretty, fawn-coloured gloves.

“Oh, the petits fours,” she said, “for choice.  One can take more of them, and amuse one’s self longer.”

They heard a carriage draw up suddenly in the street below, and Eve, who had been glancing from time to time expectantly at the window, went over and looked out.  She recognised her liveries and the two handsome bays.

“Perhaps I had better not let him come up,” she said; “it is late already, and you will be wanting to dress.”

Lightmark had just alighted from the carriage when his wife joined him in the street.  He held the door for her silently, and stopped for a moment to give the direction, “Home,” to the coachman before he took the place at her side.