Drake was standing by the chimney-piece holding at arm's length a pencil sketch of a woman's beautiful face and lithe figure. “Like herself--alive to the fingertips,” he thought, and then he propped it against the pier-glass. There was a sound of the opening and closing of the outer door downstairs, and Lord Robert entered the room. He looked heated, harassed, and exhausted. Shaking out his perfumed pocket handkerchief, he mopped his forehead, drew a long breath, and dropped into a chair. “I've done it,” he said; “it's all over.” Polly Love had lunched with the company that day, and Lord Robert had returned home with her in order to break the news of his approaching marriage. While the girl had been removing her hat and jacket he had sat at the piano and thumbed it, hardly knowing how to begin. All at once he had said, “Do you know, my dear, I'm to be married on Saturday?” She had said nothing at first, and he had played the piano furiously. Heavens, what a frame of mind to be in! Why didn't the girl speak? At last he had looked round at her, and there she stood grinning, gasping, and white as a ghost. Suddenly she had begun to cry. Good God, such crying! Yes, it was all over. Everything had been settled somehow. “But I'll be in harder condition before I tackle such a job again.” There was silence for a moment. Drake was leaning on the mantelpiece, his legs crossed, and one foot beating on the hearth-rug. The men were ashamed, and they began to talk of indifferent things. Smoke? Didn't mind. Those Indian cigars were good. Not bad, certainly. At length Drake said in a different voice, “Cruel but necessary, Robert--necessary to the woman who is going to be your wife, cruel to the poor girl who has been.” Lord Robert rose to his feet impatiently, stretched his arm, and shot out his striped cuff and walked to and fro across the room. “Pon my soul, I believe I should have stuck to the little thing but for the old girl, don't you know. She's made such a good social running lately--and then she's started this evangelical craze too. No, Polly wouldn't have suited her book anyhow.” Silence again, and then further talk on indifferent things. “Wish Benson wouldn't sweep the soda water off the table.” “Ring for it.” “The little thing really cares for me, don't you know. And it isn't my fault, is it? I had to hedge. Frank, dear boy, you're always taunting me with the treadmill we have to turn for the sake of society, and so forth, but with debts about a man's neck like a millstone, what could one do----” “I don't mean that you're worse than others, old fellow, or that sacrificing this one poor child is going to mend matters much----” “No, it isn't likely to improve my style of going, is it?” “But that man John Storm was not so far wrong, after all, and for this polygamy of our 'lavender-glove tribe' the nation itself will be overtaken by the judgment of God one of these days.”