There were intervals in which her hope flared, in which she tasted, fearfully and with bated breath, something that she had not thought to know again.  It was characteristic of him that his penitence was never spoken:  nor did he exhibit penitence.  He seemed rather at such times merely to become normally himself, as one who changes personality, apparently oblivious to the moods and deeds of yesterday.  And these occasions added perplexity to her troubles.  She could not reproach him —­which perhaps in any event she would have been too wise to do; but she could not, try as she would, bring herself to the point of a discussion of their situation.  The risk, she felt, was too great; now, at least.  There were instances that made her hope that the hour might come.

One fragrant morning Honora came down to find him awaiting her, and to perceive lying on her napkin certain distilled drops of the spring sunshine.  In language less poetic, diamonds to be worn in the ears.  The wheel of fashion, it appeared, had made a complete revolution since the early days of his mother’s marriage.  She gave a little exclamation, and her hand went to her heart.

“They are Brazilian stones,” he explained, with a boyish pleasure that awoke memories and held her speechless.  “I believe it’s very difficult, if not impossible, to buy them now.  My father got them after the war and I had them remounted.”  And he pressed them against the pink lobes of her ears.  “You look like the Queen of Sheba.”

“How do you know?” she asked tremulously.  “You never saw her.”

“According to competent judges,” he replied, “she was the most beautiful woman of her time.  Go upstairs and put them on.”

She shook her head.  An inspiration had come to her.

“Wait,” she cried.  And that morning, when Hugh had gone out, she sent for Starling and startled him by commanding that the famous Lowestoft set be used at dinner.  He stared at her, and the corners of his mouth twitched, and still he stood respectfully in the doorway.

“That is all, Starling.”

“I beg pardon, madam.  How—­how many will there be at the table?”

“Just Mr. Chiltern and I,” she replied.  But she did not look at him.

It was superstition, undoubtedly.  She was well aware that Starling had not believed that the set would be used again.  An extraordinary order, that might well have sent him away wondering; for the Lowestoft had been reserved for occasions.  Ah, but this was to be an occasion, a festival!  The whimsical fancy grew in her mind as the day progressed, and she longed with an unaccustomed impatience for nightfall, and anticipation had a strange taste.  Mathilde, with the sympathetic gift of her nation, shared the excitement of her mistress in this fete.  The curtains in the pink bedroom were drawn, and on the bed, in all its splendour of lace and roses, was spread out the dinner-gown-a chef-d’oeuvre of Madame Barriere’s as yet unworn.  And no vulgar, worldly triumph was it to adorn.