On the day after Isabel’s visit to Chelsea, Kingcote came and lunched with her. Her rooms, as he noticed, were sufficiently luxurious; a trouble weighed upon him as he talked with her. With a new dress--which of course became her perfectly--she seemed to him to have put on an air somewhat different from that which characterised her in the country. She was impulsively affectionate, but there was an absence in her manner, a shade of intermittence in her attention, a personal restlessness, an almost flippancy in her talk at times, which kept him uneasy. The atmosphere of town and of the season was about her; she seemed to be experiencing a vast relief, to have a reaction of buoyancy. It was natural that she should speak of indifferent things whilst servants were waiting at table, but Kingcote was none the less irritated and hurt in his sensibilities. He lacked the virtue of hypocrisy. The passion which had hold upon him felt itself wronged even by harmless compliance with the exactions of every-day artificial life. Something gnawed within his breast all the time that he was speaking as a mere acquaintance; he had a difficulty in overcoming a sullenness of temper which rose within him. The end of the meal was all but the limit of his patience. “Don’t ask me to come in this formal way again,” he said, when they were alone in the drawing-room. “Why not?” Isabel asked, in surprise. “Because I am absurdly sensitive. It is pain to me to hear you speak as you would to any one whom you had asked out of mere politeness. I think I had rather not see you at all than in that way.” She laughed lightly. “But isn’t it enough to know what there is beneath my outward manner?” “I know it, but----” “But--your faith in me is so weak. Why cannot you trust me more?” He was silent. “You must get rid of these weaknesses. It all comes of your living so much alone. Besides, I want you particularly to come and dine with me on Sunday. Mr. Meres will be here, and I should like you to know him. I shouldn’t wonder if he can be useful to you.” Kingcote made a gesture of impatience. “But you won’t refuse, if I wish it? He is the most delightful man, and such an old friend of mine.” “The less reason why I should like him.” “Now, Bernard, this is foolish. Are you going to be jealous of every one I know? Oh, what a terrible time is before you!” She said the words with mirthful mockery, and to Kingcote they were like a sudden stab. It was as though a future of dreadful things had suddenly been opened before his eyes, black, yawning, thronged with the shapes of midnight agonies. Her laugh had a taunting cruelty; her very eyes looked relentless. In this moment he feared her. She was sitting some little distance away, and could not let him feel the touch of her hand which would have soothed. “Have you told your sister?” she asked, after regarding him for a moment. He found it difficult to answer truthfully, but could not do otherwise. He admitted that he had.