"Oh, I forgot! I had a telegram from Bernadette--from Genoa. Good wishes, you know--but I never got it till it was all over." He was smiling still, in a ruminative way now. "Very attentive of her! It seems to amuse you, though." "Well, it was rather funny. It came when I was in Ayesha Layard's dressing-room, talking to her, and she--well, rather made fun of it." Esther eyed him with curiosity. "Did you like that?" she asked. "I didn't seem to mind it at the time." His tone was amused still, but just a little puzzled. "No, I didn't mind it." "I believe--yes, I do--I believe you were flirting with the impudent little creature! Oh, you men! This is what we get! We cry our eyes out for you, and all the time you're----!" "Men must work and women must weep!" said Arthur. "That's just what Judith was doing--literally--all the way home in the car; and in bed afterwards, very likely." Esther rapped out the disclosure tartly. "And all the while you were----!" Words failed the indignant woman. "Cried? What, not really? Poor old Judith! What a shame! I must write to her and tell her I'm as jolly as possible." "Oh, I daresay she's got over it by now," said Esther, with a dig at his vanity. But he accepted the suggestion with a cheerful alacrity which disappointed her malice. "Of course she has! She's a sensible girl. What's the good of crying?" "Would you have liked to be asked that at all moments of your life, Arthur?" He laughed. "Rather a searching question sometimes, isn't it? But poor Judith! I had no idea----" His remorse, though genuine enough, was still tinged with amusement. The smile lurked about his mouth. Esther's resentment, never very serious, melted away. In the end there was something attractive in his disposition to refuse even a sympathy which was too soft. She thought that she saw change there. Hard knocks had been chipping off a youthful veneer of sentimentality. But she would not have him impute a silly softness to Judith. "And Judith's not a crying woman. I know her," she said. "I know. She's got no end of courage. That's why it's so queer." "She thought your heart was broken, you see." "Yes, but--well, I think she ought to know me better than that." "Perhaps she doesn't always keep up with you," Esther suggested. Rather to her surprise he let the suggestion go by, and did not seize the opportunity it offered of considering or discussing himself--his character and its development. Instead, he began to talk about the Marshalship once more, full of interest and pleasure in it, looking forward to the companionship of Sir Christopher, to seeing and learning, to the touches of old pomp and ceremony in which he was to assist, unimportantly indeed, but as a favourably placed spectator. "I'm more grateful to you than I can say," he declared. "And not for the two guineas a day only!"