"What have we been talking about all to-night?" asks Eleanor, with a puzzled frown, and a smile which counteracts it. "So much was frivolous and foolish I cannot remember."

"Yet every word is hidden in some secret cell of your brain. Oh, that the secret cells could be opened and revealed to our nearest and dearest. What countless forgotten treasures might be restored."

"Or what ill-spoken words and evil quarrels revived," adds Eleanor wisely.

"Thus speaks a guilty conscience," he retorts. "I could sum up my life on a sheet of foolscap. 'Preface; apparent folly, covering intents and purposes. A boyhood of ambition, a manhood of misfortune.'"

"Misfortune!"

"Yes, since I grew to realise facts, to see men and women as they _are_, not as they appear! Sometimes the bare word 'reality' fills me with such loathing for this paltry world, with its pigmy minds and soulless bodies, that I can hardly control my contempt. I pull myself together, and pray for a new set of nerves, a stronger heart, and a better flow of healthy blood to the brain."

"What a pity that nerves cannot be purchased like false teeth," says Eleanor laughing.

"Nerves are the finest satire on our human organisation, and our bodies, each a theatre of perpetual activity, the most confusing mystery of all. I believe in a dual nature existing in men and women, but the difficulties which bar our progress to perfect knowledge of each other cannot be overcome."

"Things that can't be understood are invariably irritating," sighs Eleanor.

"Some day we will think it out together," he whispers, waving her fan gently. "We shall meet again, Mrs. Roche"--speaking confidently--"for have we not a mutual friend in Mrs. Mounteagle, whom I regret is not here to-night?"

"Yes. It is strange that we should both know her."

Eleanor has risen, and is holding out her hand for the fan.

"You are not going?"

"Look at the hour! I shall be disgraced if I stay longer."

She leaves him, and bids her hostess good-night, but finds he is waiting in the hall for a last word.

"May I call your carriage?"

"I did not order it, as I only live three doors off."

"Then may I escort you?"

Eleanor glances at him confidently with her large innocent eyes.

"Yes; I mean you to."

Mr. Quinton smiles, and takes her arm as they step out into the darkness.

"I knew somebody would see me home," she says, the old, childish Eleanor breaking through the "Giddy" manner. "I thought it would be much more fun than driving this step."

"Then it was premeditated."

She laughs softly.

"I wish it were not so near," murmurs Mr. Quinton.

"Mrs. Mounteagle wanted to let me in--I believe out of simple curiosity. I am to throw stones at her window. Quite romantic, isn't it?"

"May I have a shot?" he asks. "Which is the pane of beauty's shrine?"

"There, on the left of my room," pointing upwards.

A handful of gravel flies through the air. Rattle, rattle on the gla.s.s.

Then Giddy appears in a white _robe de chambre_, her dark hair falling in waves about her shoulders.

"All right, I am coming down."

A moment later she stands before them, laughing and shaking hands with Carol Quinton, two small, bare feet peeping from under her airy garb, her hair still unfettered.

"It is a delightful surprise to see _you_, Carol," she cries. "I have sent all the servants to bed, Eleanor, but told them to leave out some aspic and champagne, as I know the Hilliers starve their guests. What do you say to an impromptu supper party? It would be so delightfully unconventional."

She has dragged Carol into the hall and closed the door.

"Yes, do come in," echoes Eleanor feebly, pleased and yet awed by Giddy's suggestion. She is looking somewhat blankly at those delicate pink toes, and the dark mane falling over the white gown.

"Shall I get you some shoes?" she whispers.

"No, dear; Nature is better than leather, and more _neglige_."

She speaks in a tone that silences Eleanor, who feels she has been dense and awkward.

"Come along," says Giddy, leading the way, and lighting the silver candelabra in the dining-room. "Do make Eleanor take off that heavy fur cloak, Carol. Oh! isn't this nice?" as he fills her gla.s.s with champagne. "Was there ever a jollier little trio?" leaning back in her chair and surveying the other two complacently. "Pa.s.s me a brown sandwich; I am hungry if you are not, and the stuff inside them gives you an appet.i.te. What do you call it?--something beginning with an 'L.'"

The nectar of the G.o.ds puts a bright sparkle into Eleanor's eyes, their l.u.s.trous beauty gleams on Giddy and Carol Quinton in luxurious contentment. She permits her guests to smoke, and tries a whiff from Mrs. Mounteagle's cigarette, finally lighting one on her own behalf.

She dislikes smoking in reality, but considers it smart to imitate the widow.

"Have you really missed hearing Kitty Bell at the 'Frivolity'?" asks Mrs. Mounteagle, giving Carol a light from her cigarette. "My dear boy, she is perfectly charming, the most _piquante_ little singer of the day. Why, the chorus of her last song has haunted me ever since--the tune, not the words. It went something like this, as far as I can remember:

"Poor little Flo, How should she know?

A simple country maiden From the wilds of Pimlico."

As Giddy Mounteagle sings the lines a latchkey turns in the hall lock, footsteps advance down the pa.s.sage, the dining-room door opens, and Philip Roche stands before them!

[Ill.u.s.tration: The dining-room door opens, and Philip Roche stands before them.]

CHAPTER VI.

LIKE ONE THAT ON A LONESOME ROAD DOST WALK IN FEAR AND DREAD.