"Of course you can, dear. You won't feel so lonely then. Now about details. I must pack to-night." "Yes, dear, and then you can go off with Dicker in the morning, and catch the night boat. If you like, that is." "Well, I shouldn't gain anything by that, dear. I should only have to wait about in Calais until one o'clock the next day when the train de luxe starts. But I should like to go first thing to-morrow. I couldn't wait about here the whole day. Dicker will be company of sorts. I shall get to town about two, and go to the Charing Cross Hotel. Then I shall do some shopping, go to bed early, and catch the boat train from the station in the morning. I would rather do it like that." Both of them were experienced travellers and knew the continental routes well. It was arranged so. Mary did not come down to dinner. A tray was sent up to her room. Lothian dined alone with Ingworth. The voices of the two men were hushed to a lower tone in deference to the grief of the lady above. But there was a subdued undercurrent of high spirits nevertheless. Ingworth was wildly excited by the prospect before him; Gilbert fell into his mood with no trouble at all. He also had his own thoughts, his own private thoughts. --"I say, Dicker, let's have some champagne, shall we?--just to wish your mission success." "Yes, do let's. I'm just in the mood for buzz-water to-night." The housemaid went to the cellar and fetched the wine. "Here's to you, Dicker! May you become a G. W. Stevens or a Julian Ralph!" "Thanks, old chap. I'll do my best, now that my chance has come. I say I am awfully sorry about Lady Davidson. It's such rough luck on Mrs. Gilbert. You'll be rather at a loose end without your wife, won't you?--or will you write?" He tossed off his second glass of Pol Roger. "Oh, I shall be quite happy," Lothian answered, and as he said it a quiet smile came placidly upon his lips. It glowed out from within, as from some comfortable inward knowledge. Ingworth saw it, and his mind, quickened by wine and excitement, found the truth unerringly. Anger and envy flushed the young man's veins. He hated his host once more. "So that is his game, damned hypocrite!" Ingworth thought. "I shall be away, his wife will be out of the way and he will make the running with Rita Wallace just as he likes." He looked at Lothian, and then had a mental vision of himself. "He's fat and bloated," he thought. "Surely a young and lovely girl like Rita _can't_ care for him?" But even as he endeavoured to comfort his greedy conceit by these imaginings, he felt the shadow of the big mind falling upon them. He knew, as he had known so often of late, the power of that which was cased in its envelope of flesh, and which could not be denied. Perhaps there is no hate so bitter, no fear so impotent and distressing, as that which is experienced by the surface for the depth. It is the fury of the brilliant scabbard against the sword within, decoration versus that which cleaves.