Mr. Cuthbert, who was many kinds of a barometer, sought her out later in the courtyard.

“Your husband’s feeling tiptop, isn’t he?” said he.

“He’s been locked up with old Wing all day.  Something’s in the wind, and I’d give a good deal to know what it is.”

“I’m afraid I can’t inform you,” replied Honora.

Mr. Cuthbert apologized.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to ask you far a tip,” he declared, quite confused.  “I didn’t suppose you knew.  The old man is getting ready to make another killing, that’s all.  You don’t mind my telling you you look stunning tonight, do you?”

Honora smiled.

“No, I don’t mind,” she said.

Mr. Cuthbert appeared to be ransacking the corners of his brain for words.

“I was watching you to-night at the table while Mr. Wing was talking to you.  I don’t believe you heard a thing he said.”

“Such astuteness,” she answered, smiling at him, “astounds me.”

He laughed nervously.

“You’re different than you’ve ever been since I’ve known you,” he went on, undismayed.  “I hope you won’t think I’m making love to you.  Not that I shouldn’t like to, but I’ve got sense enough to see it’s no use.”

Her reply was unexpected.

“What makes you think that?” she asked curiously.

“Oh, I’m not a fool,” said Mr. Cuthbert.  “But if I were a poet, or that fellow Dewing, I might be able to tell you what your eyes were like to-night.”

“I’m glad you’re not,” said Honora.

As they were going in, she turned for a lingering look at the sea.  A strong young moon rode serenely in the sky and struck a path of light across the restless waters.  Along this shimmering way the eyes of her companion followed hers.

“I can tell you what that colour is, at least.  Do you remember the blue, transparent substance that used to be on favours at children’s parties?” he asked.  “There were caps inside of them, and crackers.”

“I believe you are a poet, after all,” she said.

A shadow fell across the flags.  Honora did not move.

“Hello, Chiltern,” said Cuthbert.  “I thought you were playing bridge...”

“You haven’t looked at me once to-night,” he said, when Cuthbert had gone in.

She was silent.

“Are you angry?”

“Yes, a little,” she answered.  “Do you blame me?”

The vibration of his voice in the moonlit court awoke an answering chord in her; and a note of supplication from him touched her strangely.  Logic in his presence was a little difficult—­there can be no doubt of that.

“I must go in,” she said unsteadily, “my carriage is waiting.”

But he stood in front of her.

“I should have thought you would have gone,” she said.

“I wanted to see you again.”

“And now?”

“I can’t leave while you feel this way,” he pleaded.  “I can’t abandon what I have of you—­what you will let me take.  If I told you I would be reasonable—­”