So, sipping his coffee in the drawing-room after luncheon, while Mrs. Bellingham maintained the flow of conversation in penetrating and emphatic tones, Laurence thought--yes, on the whole, he did think--it would be wiser and better, to retire upon the former lines of his life,--to eschew high ambitions of sorts, and fall back upon the works and ways of _l'homme moyen sensuel_, upon the great, good-natured, uninspired Commonplace, of which his uncle had accredited him with being so oblivious and complete an exponent. He thought--notwithstanding the tightening of some cord at his heart, perhaps moral, perhaps merely physical--yes, honestly he did think he had better do that, and make his decision here and now. Judging by past experience, he was doomed in all departments to be second, not to say third-rate. Well, then, best accept that doom smiling. To do so might hurt vanity a bit, yet undoubtedly there would be consolations. Laurence set down his coffee-cup with a little lift of the eyebrows and shoulders, and an expression of countenance somewhat cynical. He would coquet no longer with fairy, rose-clad ladies--he would decline the so strangely offered adventure. "The truth is, I'm not big enough for it," he thought to himself ruefully. "You know just how I feel about Virginia," his hostess was saying. "She is a perfectly lovely woman in every way, and her social sense amounts to genius. The thought of her being over makes it possible for me to contemplate spending another winter here in the country. I look forward to seeing Virginia lay hold of this neighbourhood and just put it through. Her brightness, and _verve_, and _savoir faire_ will be a perfect revelation. She will positively electrify every person within a fifteen mile radius. But--"