Geoffrey Herne, however, appeared to feel particularly morose, and spoke in a tone which, though punctiliously courteous, had a covert sneer underneath it. In reality, he was perhaps not morose; on the contrary, he may have felt a piteous forlornness at the heart, of which he was ashamed, and which he desired to conceal. His hostess, a vivacious, Parisian-looking little lady, was paying him special attention, and chatted to him inveterately. At last Herne said he must go home; Lady Feuilleton expostulated volubly, and ended by proposing that he should accompany her into the house, and drink a glass of iced claret-punch with her. Herne thought that would be as good a way as any of preparing his escape, and therefore he complied. They entered the parlour arm-in-arm. The change from sunlight to gloom rendered objects almost undistinguishable, and Geoffrey tripped over something which turned out to be the skirt of a lady's dress, and he made his apologies without discerning the features of the lady to whom he was making them. She had been sitting down--she rose hurriedly, but said nothing in reply. 'Have you come for a freshener, too, Lady Feuilleton?' said a man's voice, which, for some reason, immediately inspired Geoffrey with a feeling of aversion and contempt. 'Who are you, pray?--Why, Mr. Amidon, I declare!' exclaimed the hostess. 'And who is this with you? surely not your wife?' 'Incredible, but true!' replied the other, with a short cackling laugh. 'Dear me! what is society coming to! I'm so delighted--so good of you to come. How do you do, dear? Oh! and let me introduce my friend Mr. Geoffrey Herne--Mrs. Amidon. You ought to get on capitally together; you are both so sarcastic! We came to get some iced punch: have you had any? Well, you must join us. Dear me! Mr. Herne, can you lift that jug? it's so heavy. Just a glass all round, and then I must run back to my guests. What a lovely dress, dear!' 'Capital punch, upon my soul!' said Mr. Amidon, as he set down his emptied glass. He and Lady Feuilleton chatted together for a minute or two, laughing and fencing. He was a youngish-looking man, with a flaxen moustache and pale grey eyes, rather red round the edges. His complexion was not good, and when he laughed his chin retreated towards his throat and he twisted his shoulders. Geoffrey stood looking at him in silence. Mrs. Amidon had again sat down in a chair beside the table and was fanning herself. Presently Mr. Amidon expressed an intention of accompanying Lady Feuilleton back to the garden, and they went out, leaving Mrs. Amidon and Geoffrey to 'become acquainted,' as Lady Feuilleton put it. When they were gone, Mrs. Amidon closed her fan and looked up. 'Will you sit down by me for a moment, Geoffrey?' she said. 'Of course you understand, Mrs. Amidon,' said he, 'that I should not have come here if I had expected to meet you.'