She came in and I introduced myself to her. I almost forget what pretext I manufactured, but I remember I persuaded her to go back to Guernsey that very day. I think I said that James was spending Friday till Monday in the country, and had left no address. I was determined that they should not meet. She was far too good for a man who obviously did not appreciate her in the least. We had a very pleasant chat. She was charming. At first she was apt to touch on James a shade too frequently, but before long I succeeded in diverting our conversation into less uninteresting topics. She talked of Guernsey, I of London. I said I felt I had known her all my life. She said that one had, undeniably, one’s affinities. I said, “Might I think of her as ‘Margaret’?” She said it was rather unconventional, but that she could not control my thoughts. I said, “There you are wrong—Margaret.” She said, “Oh, what are you saying, Mr. Eversleigh?” I said I was thinking out loud. On the doorstep she said, “Well, yes—Julian—you may write to me—sometimes. But I won’t promise to answer.” Angel! The next thing that awakened me was the coming of James. After I had given him a suitable version of Margaret’s visit, he told me he was engaged to Eva. That was an astounding thing; but what was more astounding was that James had somehow got wind of the real spirit of my interview with Margaret. I have called James Orlebar Cloyster a fool; I have called him a villain. I will never cease to call him a genius. For by some marvellous capacity for introspection, by some incredible projection of his own mind into other people’s matters, he was able to tax me to my face with an attempt to win his former _fiancée’s_ affections. I tried to choke him off. I used every ounce of bluff I possessed. In vain. I left Walpole Street in a state approaching mental revolution. My exact feelings towards James were too intricate to be defined in a single word. Not so my feelings towards Eva. “Hate” supplied the lacuna in her case. Thus the month began. The next point of importance is my interview with Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell. She had known all along how matters stood in regard to Eva and myself. She had not been hostile to me on that account. She had only pointed out that as I could do nothing towards supporting Eva I had better keep away when my cousin was in London. That was many years ago. Since then we had seldom met. Latterly, not at all. Invitations still arrived from her, but her afternoon parties clashed with my after-breakfast pipe, and as for her evening receptions—well, by the time I had pieced together the various component parts of my dress clothes, I found myself ready for bed. That is to say, more ready for bed than I usually am. I went to Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell in a very bitter mood. I was bent on trouble. “I’ve come to congratulate Eva,” I said. Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell sighed. “I was afraid of this,” she said.