They had come to the end of the road now, where they always said good night, and as she spoke she was standing still, looking simply into his face. He looked at her for a moment with something in his eyes which seemed to be struggling vaguely into life side by side with the careless mockery of his “set.” “He was obliged to come, because he thought he ought,” he said. “Do you always do what you think you ought, Clemence?” “I try,” she said simply. “Every one tries, I suppose.” He laughed--the laugh that was so like his mother’s--but not quite so freely as usual, and held out his hand. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “Good night, Clemence.” “Good night,” she said. He hesitated a moment. He never went to meet her without a firm and definite intention of sealing their parting with a kiss. But he had never done so yet, and he did not do it now. “Good night,” he said again, rather lamely; and then they parted, she going quickly and quietly down the street, he passing out of it into the noise and bustle of the Hammersmith Road. Once there, he paused as though undecided. “It’s too early to go home,” he said to himself. “I’ll go down to the club for a bit.” There were a good many men in the club-room when he entered it half an hour later--and Julian--quite another young man to the Julian who had walked to the Hammersmith Road--was discussing the latest society topic with much animation over a whisky and seltzer, when Loring, to whom he had nodded at the other end of the room, strolled up to him, cigar in hand. “Dinner been a failure?” he enquired. There was nothing particular about the words; and the tone in which they were uttered was singularly, almost significantly, devoid of expression. But there was a keen, satirical expression in his eyes as he fixed them on Julian. Julian started slightly at the words, and a curious flash of expression passed across his face. “More or less,” he said, with a careless frankness that seemed just a trifle excessive. “Who was the man?” “I don’t think you know him,” said Julian, his carelessness bordering on defiance. Loring smiled. His smile was never particularly pleasant, and at this moment it was unusually cynical. “I know a good many men, too,” he observed. CHAPTER II