It seemed to Robert, as he listened, that this young man had a turn for affecting an imbecility which was not in truth part of his character; in the matter and manner of his talk, Lacour appeared rather to yield to physical inertness than to disclose natural vacuity. It might be that he was, as he professed, suffering in body; it seemed more probable that he found a luxury in abandoning his mind to sluggish promptings, even as he showed a pronounced disinclination for activity in the disposal of his limbs. His disastrous circumstances displayed their influence in the whole man. The rate at which he had lived for the past two years was no doubt telling upon him, and nothing tended to counteract, everything rather to foster, the languor which possessed him. His vanity, doubtless, was extreme; the temptation to indulge it no less so. Mrs. Bruce Page, with her semi-sentimental coddling, her pseudo-maternal familiarity, was alone enough to relax the springs of a stronger individuality than Vincent’s. Reflecting thus, Asquith maintained silence; when he raised his eyes again he saw that Ada Warren had drawn near. Lacour gave the girl his hand, and, in a tone of almost ludicrous dolorousness, asked her how she was. “I think I should rather ask you that,” she said, with a laugh; “you have a woful countenance.” “You, at all events, are in excellent spirits,” he returned. It was true, comparatively speaking. A sudden access of self-confidence had come to her, and her manner was at moments almost joyous. “Have you observed Ada?” Isabel took an opportunity of saying to her cousin apart. “I see now how wrong and selfish I have been.” And to Ada herself she spoke, finding the girl standing aside whilst general attention was being given to tea and ices. “You feel well to-day?” she said, with her kindest smile. Ada murmured something unintelligible and turned away. Mrs. Clarendon reddened slightly and, passing on, met with Vincent Lacour, who was pacing with his hands behind his back. “Won’t you have an ice?” she asked. “Ice? Great heavens! I should die of dyspepsia. But, Mrs. Clarendon, what is it? Why do you speak and look at me in such an unfriendly way?” “I am not conscious of doing so. Sit down, and tell me what you have been talking about with Mr. Asquith. Has he given you useful information?” “Decidedly useful; he’s effectually knocked all those plans on the head.” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What is the difficulty?” “There are just seventeen, one for every minute of our conversation. But very seriously, I want your advice. You know, Mrs. Clarendon, I think a good deal more of your advice than of any one else’s; pray don’t begin to be rusty just when I’ve most need of you.” “Go on; I promise not to be rusty,” said Isabel, laughing.