As they crossed the hall, Chilcote had drawn away and was already mounting the stairs.  And as Loder followed, it came sharply to his mind that here, in the slipshod freedom of a door that was always open and stairs that were innocent of covering, lay his companion’s panion’s real niche—­unrecognized in outward avowal, but acknowledged by the inward, keener sense that manifests the individual.

In silence they mounted the stairs, but on the first landing Chilcote paused and looked back, surveying Loder from the superior height of two steps.

“I did very well at first,” he said.  “I did very well—­I almost followed your example, for a week or so.  I found myself on a sort of pinnacle—­and I clung on.  But in the last ten days I’ve—­I’ve rather lapsed.”

“Why?” Loder avoided looking at his face; he kept his eyes fixed determinately on the spot where his own hand gripped the banister.

“Why?” Chilcote repeated.  “Oh, the prehistoric tale—­weakness stronger than strength.  I’m-I’m sorry to come down on you like this, but it’s the social side that bowls me over.  It’s the social side I can’t stick.”

“The social side?  But I thought—­”

“Don’t think.  I never think; it entails such a constant upsetting of principles and theories.  We did arrange for business only, but one can’t set up barriers.  Society pushes itself everywhere nowadays—­into business most of all.  I don’t want you for theatre-parties or dinners.  But a big reception with a political flavor is different.  A man has to be seen at these things; he needn’t say anything or do anything, but it’s bad form if he fails to show up.”

Loder raised his head.  “You must explain,” he said, abruptly.

Chilcote started slightly at the sudden demand.

“I—­I suppose I’m rather irrelevant,” he said, quickly.  “Fact is, there’s a reception at the Bramfells’ to-night.  You know Blanche Bramfell—­Viscountess Bramfell, sister to Lillian Astrupp.”  His words conveyed nothing to Loder, but he did not consider that.  All explanations were irksome to him and he invariably chafed to be done with them.

“And you’ve got to put in an appearance—­for party reasons?” Loder broke in.

Chilcote showed relief.  “Yes.  Old Fraide makes rather a point of it—­so does Eve.”  He said the last words carelessly; then, as if their sound recalled something, his expression changed.  A touch of satirical amusement touched his lips and he laughed.

“By-the-way, Loder,” he said, “my wife was actually tolerant of me for nine or ten days after my return.  I thought your representation was to be quite impersonal?  I’m not jealous,” he laughed.  “I’m not jealous, I assure you; but the burned child shouldn’t grow absentminded.”

At his tone and his laugh Loder’s blood stirred; with a sudden, unexpected impulse his hand tightened on the banister, and, looking up, he caught sight of the face above him—­his own face, it seemed, alight with malicious interest.  At the sight a strange sensation seized him; his grip on the banister loosened, and, pushing past Chilcote, he hurriedly mounted the stairs.