They sat apart at luncheon, and Blanche was much quieter than usual. The others were all old friends. It seemed to her more than ordinarily apparent that she was present on sufferance, accepted as Mannering's wife, as an evil to be endured, and, so far as possible, ignored. Mannering himself spoke to her now and then across the table. Lord Redford, always good-natured, made a few efforts to draw her into the conversation. But it seemed to her that she had lost her confidence. The freemasonry of old acquaintance which existed between all of them left her outside an invisible but very real circle. Words came to her with difficulty. She felt stupid, almost shy. When she made an effort to break through it she was acutely conscious of her failure. Her laugh was too hard, it lacked sincerity or restraint. The cigarette which she smoked out of bravado with her coffee, seemed somehow out of place. When at last luncheon was over Mannering left his place and came over to her. "The Duchess and I," he said, "are going to play Lord Redford and Mrs. Arbuthnot. Won't you walk round with us? The links are really very pretty." "Thanks, I hate watching golf," she answered, rising and shaking out her skirt. "Hester and I will walk home." "Do take the car, Mrs. Mannering," Berenice said. "It will simply be waiting here doing nothing." "Thank you," Blanche answered. "I shall enjoy the walk." The foursome was played in very leisurely fashion. There was plenty of time for conversation. "I don't quite understand your wife," Berenice said to Mannering. "Her dislike of me is a little too obvious. What does it mean? Do you know?" He shook his head. He was looking very pale and tired. "I am not sure that I know anything about it at all," he said. "I am beginning to distrust my own judgment." "Your marriage--" she began, thoughtfully. "Don't let us talk about it," he interrupted. "I tried to pay a debt. It seems to me that I have only incurred a fresh one." They were silent for some time. Then their opponents lost a ball and displayed no particular diligence in attempting to find it. Berenice sat down upon a plank seat. "Your marriage," she said, "seemed always to me a piece of quixotism. I never altogether understood it." "It was an affair of impulse," he said, slowly. "Life from a personal point of view had lost all interest to me. I did not dream after my--shall we call it apostacy?--that I could rely upon even a modicum of your friendship. I looked upon myself as an outcast commencing life afresh. Then chance intervened. I thought I saw my way to making some atonement to a woman whose life I had certainly helped to ruin. That was where the serious part of the mistake came. I thought what I had to offer would be sufficient. I am beginning now to doubt it." "And what are you going to do?" she asked, looking steadily away from him. "Heaven knows," he answered, bitterly. "I cannot give what I do not possess."