It was quite extraordinary how ready people were to accept and make use of a young man who carried no other credentials than the good word of a pretty Countess with a reputation for being rapid. I found myself dancing every evening with the peerage. I cannot honestly say that I received many invitations to dinner, or to those more select entertainments which argue any great degree of intimacy. My keen instinct warned me of the unreality of my position and of how necessary it was to make ties of some kind to enable me to retain my hold on society. The men were civil enough, but I had little in common with those who talked nothing but the jargon they had learned at a public school or at one of the ’Varsities. I had the extreme satisfaction of being seen in a box at the Gaiety by Lionel Holland and Sibella while I was with Lord and Lady Pebworth and Sir Anthony Cross, a friend of theirs. “What a very beautiful girl,” said Lady Pebworth, as I bowed to Sibella. “Quite lovely,” said Lord Pebworth. Sir Anthony Cross said nothing, but I repeatedly caught him looking at Sibella when Lady Pebworth was not using his opera glasses. “Who is the man with her?” asked Lady Pebworth. “Lionel Holland.” “Is he a friend of yours?” “I know him. I went to school with him.” “I see you don’t like him. He looks a bounder.” Lady Pebworth had in her conversation just that amount of slanginess which may be permitted to an obviously well-bred woman without its giving offence. As we were going out I found myself by the side of Sibella for a moment. “You hardly ever come and see us now,” she murmured. Sibella never lost her charm for me, and the sound of her voice—always a little sharp and unmusical, even when she made an attempt at modulating it, which was seldom—played upon my temperament in the most subtle manner. I promised to visit them quite soon. “Next Sunday?” she asked. “I am going out of town next Sunday.” Lady Pebworth’s carriage drew up, and, murmuring something about the Sunday after, I left her. “Your friend, Mr. Rank,” said Lady Pebworth, “is decidedly pretty.” “One of the prettiest girls I have ever set eyes on,” said Lord Pebworth. Sir Anthony Cross still said nothing, but I had a shrewd conviction that he was more impressed than either. On Saturday I bicycled down to stay with the Gascoynes till Monday, having promised my employer to do all which tactful diplomacy might accomplish to find out how they would take an effort at a reconciliation.