Nevern was restive. “Why?” he whispered. “Why shouldn’t every one know? I’m so tired of all this----” “I do so want to keep our exquisite secret a little longer,” she interrupted, hurriedly. “It’s always a profanation when it is shared by the vulgar world. Besides, you promised, Nigel!” He drew himself up with a sigh. “Yes, I know. But how long is it to go on like this?” She smiled at him. “Be patient a little longer. Now let’s go into the room, then I’ll stop and speak to some one I know, and you can leave me.” “When may I come?” urged Nevern in the same low tone as she rose. “I don’t know. I’ll write,” she told him, hurriedly, with Robert’s eyes upon her. They took the few steps towards the drawing-room together, and taking care to make her dismissal of Nevern as casual as possible, as well as to be in full view of Robert when it was achieved, she gave both hands to Mrs. Stanley Garth, the distinguished theosophist. Philippa’s attitude, as well as her rapid glance in passing, suggested that his moment had come. Robert allowed it to pass. Five minutes later she saw him shake hands with their hostess, and overheard the beginning of his excuses for leavetaking. “But you _can’t_ go!” exclaimed Lady Wilmot. “All nonsense about a sick friend. I don’t believe in him. Besides, you’re not going to desert your wife?” “Lady Luton has very kindly offered to drive her home,” said Robert. “She lives almost next door, you know.” “I believe it’s nothing but temper!” declared his hostess, jovially. “You’re rather out of it nowadays, aren’t you? When a man has a brilliant wife he must look to his laurels, eh? ’Pon my word, Robert, she’s quite cut you out. Every one’s talking about her book. Look at them now,” she jerked her head back towards the room--“all swinging incense. Why, you wicked creature, you never even told me she wrote. I believe you were jealous!” She was walking with him towards the head of the stairs while she chattered. She was hitting a little at random, but it amused her to discover when the blows were felt. To do Lady Wilmot justice, her malice was not exclusively directed against her own sex. To exasperate a man afforded her on the whole more entertainment than she would have derived had her victim been feminine. “A man’s colossal vanity is so tempting,” she frequently observed. “I long to overthrow it. But then, I always had a taste for the impossible.” Despite his utmost endeavors Robert could not make his rejoinders sound other than a trifle constrained. “I admit I never took Cecily’s work very seriously,” he said. “That was my mistake. She never talked about it much herself, and--well, somehow one never thinks of one’s wife as a literary woman. But, my dear lady! jealous of her? What an idea!”