The only thing was to be beforehand with Barbara and Bevan and Elise and Toby and Markham and the servants; to tell Fanny himself before any of them could get in first. The more he thought about it the more he was persuaded that this was the only right, the only straightforward and manly thing to do; at the same time it occurred to him that by suppressing a few unimportant details he could really give a very satisfactory account of the whole affair. It would not be necessary, for instance, to tell Fanny what his intentions had been, if indeed he had ever had any. For, as he went again and again over the whole stupid business, his intentions--those that related to the little house in Cheltenham or St. John's Wood--tended to sink back into the dream state from which they had arisen, clearing his conscience more and more from any actual offence. He had, in fact, nothing to account for but his attitude, the rather compromising attitude in which Barbara had found him. And that could be very easily explained away. Fanny was not one of those exacting, jealous women; she would be ready to accept a reasonable explanation of anything. And you could always appease her by a little attention. So on Friday afternoon Mr. Waddington himself drove the car down to Wyck Station and met Fanny on the platform. He made tea for her himself and waited on her, moving assiduously, and smiling an affectionate yet rather conscious smile. He was impelled to these acts spontaneously, because of that gentleness and tenderness towards Fanny which the bare thought of Elise was always enough to inspire him with. Thus, by sticking close to Fanny all the evening he contrived that Barbara should have no opportunity of saying anything to her. And in the last hour before bed-time, when they were alone together in the drawing-room, he began. He closed the door carefully behind Barbara and came back to his place, scowling like one overpowered by anxious thought. He exaggerated this expression on purpose, so that Fanny should notice it and give him his opening, which she did. "Well, old thing, what are _you_ looking so glum about?" "Do I look glum?" "Dismal. What is it?" He stood upright before the chinmeypiece, his conscience sustained by this posture of rectitude. "I'm not quite easy about Barbara," he said. "Barbara? What on earth has _she_ been doing?" "She's been doing nothing. It's--it's rather what she may do if you don't stop her." "I don't want to stop her," said Fanny, "if you're thinking of Ralph Bevan." "Ralph Bevan? I certainly am not thinking of him. Neither is she." "Well then, what?" "I was thinking of myself." "My dear, you surely don't imagine that Barbara's thinking of you?" "Not--not in the way you imply. The fact is, I was let in for a--a rather unpleasant scene the other day with Mrs. Levitt." "I always thought," said Fanny, "that woman would let you in for something. Well?" "Well, I hardly know how to tell you about it, my dear."