‘She looks shockingly ill,’ he began to-night when alone with Stella. ‘Wasn’t there something said about consumption when she was at Exmouth? Has she any cough?’ ‘No, I don’t think it is that,’ Stella answered. ‘She seems glad to be with you.’ ‘Very glad, I think.’ ‘Did the loss of her child affect her deeply?’ ‘I cannot say. She has never spoken of it.’ ‘Poor child!’ Stella made no reply to the exclamation. The next day Adela went to call on Mrs. Rodman. It was a house in Bayswater, not large, but richly furnished. Adela chose a morning hour, hoping to find her sister-in-law alone, but in this she was disappointed. Four visitors were in the drawing-room, three ladies and a man of horsey appearance, who talked loudly as he leaned back with his legs crossed, a walking-stick held over his knee, his hat on the ground before him. The ladies were all apparently middle-aged; one of them had a great quantity of astonishingly yellow hair, and the others made up for deficiency in that respect with toilets in very striking taste. The subject under discussion was a recent murder. The gentleman had the happiness of being personally acquainted with the murderer, at all events had frequently met him at certain resorts of the male population. When Mrs. Rodman had briefly welcomed Adela, the discussion continued. Its tone was vulgar, but perhaps not more so than the average tone among middle-class people who are on familiar terms with each other. The gentleman, still leading the conversation, kept his eyes fixed on Adela, greatly to her discomfort. In less than half an hour these four took their departure. ‘So Dick came a cropper!’ was Alice’s first remark, when alone with her sister-in-law. Adela tried in vain to understand. ‘At the election, you know. I don’t see what he wanted to go making himself so ridiculous. Is he much cut up?’ ‘I don’t think it troubles him much,’ Adela said; ‘he really had no expectation of being elected. It was just to draw attention to Socialism.’ ‘Of course he’ll put it in that way. But I’d no idea you were in London. Where are you living?’ Alice had suffered, had suffered distinctly, in her manners, and probably in her character. It was not only that she affected a fastness of tone, and betrayed an ill-bred pleasure in receiving Adela in her fine drawing-room; her face no longer expressed the idle good-nature which used to make it pleasant to contemplate, it was thinner, less wholesome in colour, rather acid about the lips. Her manner was hurried, she seemed to be living in a whirl of frivolous excitements. Her taste in dress had deteriorated; she wore a lot of jewellery of a common kind, and her headgear was fantastic. ‘We have a few friends to-morrow night,’ she said when the conversation had with difficulty dragged itself over ten minutes. ‘Will you come to dinner? I’m sure Willis will be very glad to see you.’