But in her own immediate circle, comprising as it did many people whose chief interests were connected with the world of books, Cecily’s success was immediate and strikingly apparent. Already popular as a charming as well as a pretty woman, it needed only the added distinction of having written a novel that was discussed at length in the Quarterlies to make her openly courted. Robert never saw her nowadays. It had come to be tacitly understood that “the Kingslakes went their separate ways,” and invitations in which he was not included were showered upon his wife. The first party for several weeks to which they went together was one given in June by Lady Wilmot. At half-past nine, Robert stood waiting in the hall for his wife. In a few minutes her bedroom door opened and she came out, followed by a maid who held her evening cloak ready. Robert regarded her critically. She wore a white gown, which he, a connoisseur of women’s dress, thoroughly approved. Moreover, as he could not fail to see, it was extraordinarily becoming. Her dark hair looked very soft and cloudy, the color in her cheeks was faint and delicate as a wild rose. He looked at her, and saw she was a beautiful woman. “Do I look nice?” she asked, smiling. Oddly enough Robert felt depressed that the smile was so cordial. “Very,” he returned, and did not speak again till they were in the hansom that the hall porter had called. Even then it was she who broke the silence. “You look rather tired,” she said, glancing at him. “Are you?” “Not tired. Beastly depressed.” He spoke in the tone of a child who needs comfort, a tone which Cecily knew well. It never failed to move her. “Things aren’t going very well just now?” she asked, gently. “It’s frightfully worrying while it lasts, isn’t it? But it won’t last. Nothing lasts. Why, next year, I shall be down _there_”--she indicated infinite depth,--“and you, towering on pinnacles above me!” “Oh, no!” returned Robert, bitterly. “You’ve come to stay.” Cecily shrank back a little into the corner of the cab. When she replied, her voice trembled. “You speak almost as though you were sorry,” she said. “And that makes me miserable. There’s no comparison between your best work and mine, Robert--but there’s also no accounting for what will succeed.” Robert felt a violent increase of the irritation that possessed him--an irritation which had its source in many complex, undefined emotions. “Oh, as to that,” he began, with a contemptuous laugh, “that’s quite immaterial. Surely, my dear Cecily, you can’t imagine that I’m jealous of this little boom of yours? I don’t take _that_ seriously.” She was stung by his tone. “Am I to understand that there’s something you _do?_” “Yes,” returned Robert, suddenly. “I object to your intimacy with Mayne.” The words broke from him, apparently without his own volition. He was startled at their sound. For a long moment there was silence. “On what grounds?” inquired Cecily at last, in the same icy tone.