He became nervous, embarrassed, almost pitiably apologetic. The savoir-faire which would have helped some men to take the rebuke entirely deserted him. There was something assiduous, almost vulgar, a frightened acceptance of the lash indeed, which immensely accentuated the sudden _défaillance_ and break-down. In the big drawing room no one spoke at all. Then there was a sudden movement and stir. Gilbert Lothian was saying good-night. He had remembered that he really had some work to do before going to bed, some letters to write, as a matter of fact. He was shaking hands with every one. "I do hope that I shall have the pleasure of hearing you play some more Chopin before long, Miss Amberley! Thank you so much Mrs. Amberley--I'm going to write a poem about your beautiful Dining Room. I suppose we shall meet at the Authors' Club dinner on Saturday, Mr. Toftrees?--so interested to have met you at last." . . . The people in the drawing room heard him chattering vivaciously to Mr. Amberley, who had accompanied his departing guest into the hall. No one said a single word. They heard the front door close, and the steps of the master of the house as he returned to them. They were all waiting. When Amberley came in he made a courtly attempt at ignoring what had just occurred. The calm surface of the evening had been rudely disturbed--yes! For once even an Amberley party had gone wrong--there was to be no fun from this meeting of young folk to-night. But it was Mrs. Amberley who spoke. She really could not help it. Mrs. Toftrees had been telling her of various rumours concerning Gilbert Lothian some time before the episode at the piano, and with all her tolerance Mrs. Amberley was thoroughly angry. That such a thing should have happened in her house, before Muriel and her girl friend--oh! it was unthinkable! "So Mr. Gilbert Lothian has gone," she said with considerable emphasis. "Yes, dear," Mr. Amberley answered as he sat down again, willing enough that nothing more should be said. But it was not to be so. "We can never have him here again," said the angry lady. Amberley shook his head. "Very unfortunate, extremely unfortunate," he murmured. "I cannot understand it. Such a thing has never happened here before. Now I understand why Mr. Lothian hides himself in the country and never goes about. _Il y avait raison!_" "I don't say that genius is any _excuse_ for this sort of thing," Amberley replied uneasily, "and Lothian has genius--but one must take more than one thing into consideration . . ." He paused, not quite knowing how to continue the sentence, and genuinely sorry and upset. His glance fell upon Herbert Toftrees, and he had a sort of feeling that the novelist might help him out. "Don't you think so, Toftrees?" he asked. The novelist surveyed the room with his steady grey eyes, marshalling his hearers as it were.