"Oh yes. You'll be bound to show it in your manner." George showed no astonishment at hearing that Neaera had made a confidant of Tommy Myles. It was quite consistent with the part she was playing, as he conceived it. Nor did he resent Tommy's outspoken rebukes. "Don't mix yourself up in unpleasant things when you aren't obliged, my son," was all he said in reply to these tirades. "Dine at home?" "No," snorted Tommy, in high dudgeon. "You won't break bread with the likes of me?" "I'm going to the play, and to supper afterwards." "With whom?" "Eunice Beauchamp." "Dear me, what a pretty name!" said George. "Short for 'Betsy Jones,' I suppose?" "Go to the devil," said Tommy. "You ain't going to accuse her of prigging, are you?" "She kidnaps little boys," said George, who felt himself entitled to some revenge, "and keeps them till they're nearly grown up." "I don't believe you ever saw her in your life." "Oh yes, I did--first piece I ever went to, twenty years ago." And so, what with Eunice Beauchamp, _alias_ Betsy Jones, and Neaera Witt, _alias_--what?--two friends parted for that evening with some want of cordiality. "She plays a bold game," thought George, as he ate his solitary chop; "but too bold. You overdo it, Mrs. Witt. An innocent girl would not tell that sort of thing to a stranger, however false it was." Which reflection only showed that things strike different minds differently. George needed comfort. The Serpent-in-Eden feeling was strong upon him. He wanted somebody who would not only recognise his integrity but also admire his discretion. He had a card for Mrs. Pocklington's at-home, and Isabel was to be there. He would go and have a talk with her; perhaps he would tell her all about it, for surely Neaera's confidence to Tommy Myles absolved him from the strict letter of his pledge of secrecy. Isabel was a sensible girl; she would understand his position, and not look on him as a cross between an idiot and a burglar because he had done what was obviously right. So George went to Mrs. Pocklington's with all the rest of the world; for everybody went there. Mrs. Pocklington--Eleanor Fitzderham, who married Pocklington, the great shipowner, member for Dockborough--had done more to unite the classes and the masses than hundreds of philanthropic societies, and, it may be added, in a pleasanter manner; and if, at her parties, the bigwigs did not always talk to the littlewigs, yet the littlewigs were in the same room with the bigwigs, which is something even at the moment, and really very nearly as good for purposes of future reference.