“After all!” assented Mrs. Romayne gaily. “After all that poor woman’s trouble, after the quite pathetic way in which she has slaved to catch him, she gets a letter from the ungrateful girl--at an afternoon tea, too, heaps of people there--to say that she is Mrs. Bob Stewart. Baccarat Bob you wretched men at the clubs call him, don’t you?” “That was enough to induce convulsions, let alone neuralgia,” commented Loring. They both laughed, and the laugh was succeeded by a moment’s silence. Then Loring said casually: “What has become of your cousin, Falconer, among other people, by-the-bye? I don’t hear anything of him, and his grim presence was hardly to be overlooked. Have you any little escapade of his to reveal, now?” Mrs. Romayne laughed a little harshly. “Unfortunately not,” she said. “His absence is due to the most characteristically orthodox causes. He was ill about three months ago. He went into a hospital sort of place--one of those new things--and he was rather bad. Now he’s somewhere or other recovering. I fancy he won’t be in London again yet.” Loring received the news with a comment as indifferent as his question had been, and then there fell a second silence. Loring’s eyes, very keen and calculating, were fixed upon the carpet; on Mrs. Romayne’s face was an accentuation of the intent, preoccupied look which had lain behind all her previous gaiety. The two faces suggested curiously that the man and woman alike felt individually and each irrespective of the other that something in the shape of a prologue was over, and that the real interest of the interview might begin. The silence was broken by Mrs. Romayne; she pushed the tea-table further from her and leaned back in her chair, as she said casually: “Did you and Julian meet at the club last night?” Loring followed her example and took an easier and more careless pose. “Yes!” he said. “We had an hour’s talk together. I was very glad I had looked in. I hardly expected to find him there!” Mrs. Romayne laughed, and the sound was rather forced. “Oh,” she said lightly, “he is a tremendous clubbist! All young men go through the phase, don’t you think?” She paused a moment, and her voice sounded as though her breath was coming rather quickly as she said carelessly: “You find him a good deal altered, I dare say? Six months”--she paused; her breath was troublesome--“six months makes such a difference at his time of life!” she finished. Loring looked at her. He had long ago decided that when a woman was “made up” it was of very little use to direct observation to anything but her eyes. “Yes!” he said reflectively, as though debating a question already existing in his mind, and answering it for the first time. “He is altered! I suppose--yes, I suppose six months must make a difference!” A sharp breath as at a sudden stab of pain had parted Mrs. Romayne’s lips at his first words, and he saw a hard, defiant brightness come into her eyes.