Geoffrey Herne took this shock with a serenity that surprised himself. Indeed, he got so far as to say, after a few days, that he was glad it had turned out so. Of course he never answered the letter, and he never spoke to anyone of the episode of his engagement to Miss Quentin. It had been known to but few of Herne's acquaintances; and if they learnt the sequel they were all too considerate, or too cautious, to discuss the matter with him, or in his presence. To tell the truth, he was not a very genial companion. He had always had a biting tongue, and now it had become almost venomous. Whenever he saw an opening for saying a cruel witty thing, he said it unhesitatingly, and without compunction, no matter if it were at the expense of his dearest friend. 'I must have my little joke,' he would reply if any remonstrance were attempted. The men in his club began to fight rather shy of him; no one could get the better of him in repartee, and he was noted for never forgetting or forgiving a slight or an ill-turn, even if it were unintentional. 'Herne will have his revenge if he waits a year for it,' used to be said of him in reference to such affairs. It was worth nobody's while to be his enemy, and nobody knew how to be his friend. He saw very little of society; but he worked with vigour at his profession, and every month added to his reputation as a barrister. 'He will be Q.C. before he's forty if he keeps on,' was prophesied of him by a certain learned judge, not given to reckless predictions. It was evident, therefore, that his love-disappointment had done him no harm. One day, contrary to his usual custom, he accepted an invitation to a garden-party at Lady Feuilleton's suburban villa. It was a gentle June afternoon, a year and a month after his last interview with Ellice Quentin. A broad rectangular lawn, soft and deep to the foot, was surrounded with tall limes and elms, whose voluminous leafiness cast grateful shadows athwart the turf. Beneath the trees a path lay in sunshine-fretted gloom. The house, with its balcony and open windows, stood at one end of the lawn; at the opposite end a marquee had been set up; a large sheet of canvas had moreover been pinned down upon an area of the level turf as a dancing floor. Chairs of designs more or less fantastic were placed in straggling groups along the shady side of the lawn, and these were occupied by men and women in summer attire--it was very warm--and bright-coloured parasols and fans made the scene lively as well as lovely. When the music began the charm was complete.