Her voice is a little hard, there is a ring of sarcasm and rebellion in it that is strange to Eleanor.

"Have you ever been to the Savoy?"

"No."

"Let us lunch there, it is past one," urges Carol Quinton.

He hails a hansom, though Eleanor is reluctant.

"I really can't," she whispered.

"There is no harm, dear," he replies persuasively.

The cabman is watching her; she feels confused, uncertain.

Then his influence is too strong, and Eleanor succ.u.mbs.

Where is the harm? She is a married woman, she can go if she pleases.

He helps her into the hansom, and they spin away.

"Do you remember last time we drove together?" he asks.

"Yes, from the b.u.t.terflies' Club."

"It was dark then, Eleanor."

Her eyes droop, an embarra.s.sed flush dyes her cheek.

"I am Mrs. Roche," she stammers.

"But 'Eleanor' is such a beautiful name, so queenly. You have poisoned all my happiness since the fatal night when I first saw you."

"I would willingly give it back, every shred of shattered joy, if I could."

"You could if you would."

"How?"

"By being kind, by taking me back to favour, and forgiving me."

"It looks as if I had done that already."

"But only in a hesitating, half-hearted manner."

"It is far easier for me to forgive," says Eleanor, "than for you to accept my forgiveness and not err again."

There is silence between them for some moments.

"If I could think you cared for me just a little, Eleanor, I would be a better man."

"No," she said, biting her lips, and struggling with intense emotion; "you must reform without my aid--it will be harder, and therefore n.o.bler. I do not 'care' for you."

He sees the efforts these words are costing her.

"I don't believe that, Eleanor."

"Then in disbelieving me you put me on a par with a common liar," she says hotly.

"Oh, no," he replies with his wan smile; "it is one of 'the social lies that warp us from the living truth.'"

They are turning into the Savoy courtyard.

Eleanor alights half pleased, half frightened at her daring.

She feels very strange as she enters the huge restaurant with Carol.

It is a full day, and he points her out several celebrities as they pa.s.s to their table.

"This is the one, sir," says the waiter, "for two," removing an engaged card on Eleanor's plate.

"How was the table reserved for us?" she asks Mr. Quinton. "We seemed expected."

"I wired for it this morning," he answered tenderly. "I knew you would be in town, and I meant you to come!"

"It is very wrong of me," she sighs, and her eyes glisten as if washed by still rains under her lashes. "Do you know, I have a calendar in my room, and every morning I pull off a leaf to read the motto. I have just remembered the quotation for to-day."

"What was it?" he asks.

Eleanor bends her head over her _hors d'oeuvre_.

"The stately flower of female fort.i.tude--of perfect wifehood."

"Ah!" he sighs, "Tennyson."

"Yes," says Mrs. Roche.

Her eyes glance round the room.

How many bright eyes glisten over their champagne, and merry tongues joke and laugh away the hours!

"I like to look at people and make histories of them," says Eleanor.

"That girl with the flaxen hair, next to the dark man on your right, was a ballet girl before she married Sir Frederick Thurston. Everybody prophesied that her high kick would lift her into the aristocracy when she first gained favour. Her name was Poppy Poppleton, and people think she poisoned her husband and let another woman swing for it."

"Why do you tell me these horrible things?" murmurs Eleanor. "They are not conducive to appet.i.te."

"Forgive me, but you started by being morbid, quoting at me in fact, and you look so distractingly lovely when you are shocked."