Presently we dined, and during the meal, when the servants happened to be out of the room, we continued, snippet-wise, the inconclusive conversation. Like a good sister Agatha had come to cheer a lonely and much abused man; like a daughter of Eve she had also come to find out as much as she possibly could. “I think I must tell you something which you ought to know,” she said. “It's all over the town that you stole the lady from Dale Kynnersley.” “If I did,” said I, “it was at his mother's earnest entreaty. You can tell folks that. You can also tell them Madame Brandt is not the kind of woman to be stolen by one man from another. She is a thoroughly virtuous, good, and noble woman, and there's not a creature living who wouldn't be honoured by her friendship.” As I made this announcement with an impetuosity which reminded me (with a twinge of remorse) of poor Dale's dithyrambics, Agatha shot at me a quick glance of apprehension. “But, my dear Simon, she used to act in a circus with a horse!” “I fail to see,” said I, growing angry, “how the horse could have imbued her with depravity, and I'm given to understand that the tone of the circus is not quite what it used to be in the days of the Empress Theodora.” A ripple passed over Agatha's bare shoulders, which I knew to be a suppressed shrug. “I suppose men and women look at these things differently,” she remarked, and from the stiffness of her tone I divined that the idea of moral qualities lurking in the nature of Lola Brandt occasioned her considerable displeasure. “I hope----” She paused. There was another ripple. “No. I had better not say it. It's none of my business, after all.” “I don't think it is, my dear,” said I. Rogers bringing in the cutlets ended the snippet of talk. It was not the cheeriest of dinners. I took advantage of the next interval of quiet to inquire after Dale. I learned that the poor boy had almost collapsed after the election and was now yachting with young Lord Essendale somewhere about the Hebrides. Agatha had not seen him, but Lady Kynnersley had called on her one day in a distracted frame of mind, bitterly reproaching me for the unhappiness of her son. I should never have suspected that such fierce maternal love could burn beneath Lady Kynnersley's granite exterior. She accused me of treachery towards Dale and, most illogically, of dishonourable conduct towards herself. “She said things about you,” said Agatha, “for which, even if they were true, I couldn't forgive her. So that's an end of that friendship. Indeed, it has been very difficult, Simon,” she continued, “to keep up with our common friends. It has placed us in the most painful and delicate position. And now you're back, I'm afraid it will be worse.”