Laurence dropped the stump of his cigarette into his finger-bowl, and sat resting his elbows on the table and his forehead in his hands, thinking.--For Virginia meant what she said. Of course she did. Virginia always meant what she said, sometimes a little more--certainly never less. And her reasons for saying that which she said were always perfectly convincing to herself. Virginia was never impulsive; her action was always the outcome of intention. Therefore it was useless to temporise or ask explanations by means of that far-flashing cable. In her letters Virginia had lately commented upon the length of his absence--quite good-temperedly. Virginia was always good-tempered; partly, perhaps, because she had never had occasion to learn what opposition meant. This telegram was her ultimatum; but whether delivered of her own free will and initiative, or in deference to some unusual circumstance, illness, accident, or sudden financial crisis, he could not, of course, divine. Yet even so, the position remained very simple. There were but two paths. One or other he must choose. Either he must obey her, and that unquestioningly and directly--this was Thursday, the next American mail left Liverpool at the end of the week--or he must refuse; and that, he believed, meant a break with Virginia. Laurence remained very still for a time. A break with Virginia?--Yes; the storm was working round by the north as he had anticipated.--He had no complaint to make against Virginia, Heaven forbid! She was just precisely that which she had always been--in her own sphere and connection, from the modern and mundane point of view, an eminently and admirably clever person. He agreed with her disciple, Mrs. Bellingham, that in social affairs she possessed a _savoir faire_ and intelligence amounting to positive genius. She was absolutely self-reliant. She had never been surprised or nonplussed in all her life, and--and-- Laurence rose to his feet, crossed the room and rang the bell. His face had grown singularly hard. It bore but slight resemblance to that of his namesake, the gallant and debonair young Laurence Rivers of the Cosway miniature. Indeed, his eyes were coldly brilliant, his lips almost as thin as those of Montagu Rivers, his uncle, but lately dead.--Well, he proposed to enlarge Virginia's experience. He proposed to surprise, to nonplus her. It was a blackguardly thing to do, and she, of all women, would be the last to forgive it. So much the better, he did not want her to forgive it. He proposed to repudiate Virginia, he proposed to desert her--and then, fortunately, the American divorce laws are easy. When Renshaw answered the bell he said-- "Leave the fruit and wine on the table, and bring an uncut loaf of new, white bread. Don't sit up. I shall be late, and I wish to have the house to myself to-night." XXIII