"I don't agree with you there," snapped Mrs. Harrington. "So you saw the Ingham-Bakers also, Fitz?"

"Yes; they lunched with us."

"And Agatha was very pleasant, no doubt?"

"Very."

"She always is--to men. The Count admires her greatly. She makes him do so."

"She has an easy task," put in De Lloseta quietly. It almost seemed that there was some feeling about Agatha between these two people.

"You know," Mrs. Harrington went on, addressing herself to Fitz, "that Luke and I have made it up. We are friends now."

Fitz did not answer at once. His face clouded over. Seen thus in anger, it was almost a hard face, older and somewhat worn. He raised his eyes, and they as suddenly softened, for Eve's eyes had met them, and she seemed to understand.

"I am not inclined to discuss Luke," he said quietly.

"My dear, I did not propose doing so," answered Mrs. Harrington, and her voice was so humble and conciliatory that De Lloseta looked up from his plate, from one face to the other.

That Mrs. Harrington should accept this reproof thus humbly seemed to come as a surprise to them all, except Fitz, who went on eating his dinner with a singular composure.

It would appear that Mrs. Harrington had been put out of temper by some small incident at the beginning of the dinner, and, like a spoilt child, proceeded to vent her displeasure on all and sundry.

In the same way she would no doubt have continued, unless spoken sharply to, as Fitz had spoken.

For now her manner quite changed, and the rest of the meal pa.s.sed pleasantly enough. Mrs. Harrington now devoted herself to her guests, and as carefully avoided dangerous subjects as she had hitherto appeared to seek them.

After dinner she asked the Count to tune his violin, while she herself prepared to play his accompaniment.

Fitz lighted the candles and set the music ready with a certain neatness of hand rarely acquired by landsmen, and then returned to the smaller drawing-room, where Eve was seated by the fire, needlework in hand.

He stood for a moment leaning against the mantelpiece. Perhaps he was waiting for her to speak. Perhaps he did not realise how much there was in his long, silent gaze.

"How long have you been here?" he asked, when the music began.

"Ten days," she answered, without looking up.

"But you are not going to live here?"--with some misgiving.

"Oh no. I am going to live with my uncle in Suffolk."

He moved away a few steps to pick up a fallen newspaper. Presently he came back to her, resuming his former position at the corner of the mantelpiece.

It was Eve who spoke next--smoothing out her silken trifle of needlework and looking at it critically.

"I never thanked you," she said, "for all your kindness to me at D'Erraha. You were a friend in need."

It was quite different from what it had been at D'Erraha. Possibly it was as different as were the atmospheres of the two places. Eve seemed to have something of London in the reserve of her manner--the easy insincerity of her speech. She was no longer a girl untainted by worldliness--sincere, frank, and open.

Fitz was rather taken aback.

"Oh," he answered, "I could not do much. There was really nothing that I could do except to stand by in case I might be wanted."

Eve took up her needle again.

"But," she said, "that is already something. It is often a great comfort, especially to women, to know that there is some one 'standing by,' as you call it, in case they are wanted."

She gave a little laugh, and then suddenly became quite grave. The recollection of a conversation they had had at D'Erraha had flashed across her memory, as recollections do--at the wrong time. The conversation she remembered was recorded at the time--it was almost word for word with this, but quite different.

Fitz was looking at her with his impenetrable simplicity.

"Will you oblige me," he said, "by continuing to look upon me in that light?"

She had bent her head rather far over her work as he spoke, and as he said the last five words her breath seemed to come with a little catch, as if she had p.r.i.c.ked her finger.

The musicians were just finishing a brilliant performance, and before answering Fitz she looked round into the other room, nodded, smiled, and thanked them. Then she turned to him, still speaking in the light and rather indifferent tone which was so new to him, and said -

"Thank you very much, but of course I have my uncle. How--how long will you be--staying on sh.o.r.e? You deserve a long leave, do you not?"

"Yes, I suppose I do," said Fitz absently. He had evidently listened more to the voice than the words. He forgot to answer the question. But she repeated it.

"How long do you get?" she asked, hopelessly conversational.

"About three weeks."

"Is that all? Ah! here is tea. I wonder whether I ought to offer to pour it out!"

But Mrs. Harrington left the piano, and said that her sight was failing her. She had had enough music.

During the rest of the evening Fitz took one or two opportunities of looking at Eve to discover, if he could, what the difference was that he found in her. He had left a girl in Majorca--he found a woman in London. That was the whole difference; but he did not succeed in reducing it to so many words. He had pa.s.sed most of his life at sea among men. He had not, therefore, had much opportunity of acquiring that doubtful knowledge--the knowledge of women--the only item, by the way, which men will never include among the sciences of existence. Already they know more about the stars than they do about women. Even if Fitz had possessed this knowledge he would not have turned it to account. The wisest fail to do that.

We only make use of our knowledge of women in the study of those women with whom other men have to do.

"Fitz has grown rather dull and stupid," said Mrs. Harrington, when the two guests had taken their leave.

Eve was folding up her work, and did not answer.

"Was he like that in Mallorca?" continued the grey lady.

"Oh--I think so. He was very quiet always."

CHAPTER XV. DON QUIXOTE.

They also serve who only stand and wait.

"Come down to my club and have a cigar!"

The Count stood under a yellow lamp enveloped in his fur-lined coat, looking with heavy, deep-browed eyes at his young companion.