I arrived at Marlow Square, where I was to pick up Cynthia and her mother, a little late, and found Mrs Drassilis, florid and overdressed, in the drawing-room with a sleek-haired, pale young man known to me as Tankerville Gifford--to his intimates, of whom I was not one, and in the personal paragraphs of the coloured sporting weeklies, as 'Tanky'. I had seen him frequently at restaurants. Once, at the Empire, somebody had introduced me to him; but, as he had not been sober at the moment, he had missed any intellectual pleasure my acquaintanceship might have afforded him. Like everybody else who moves about in London, I knew all about him. To sum him up, he was a most unspeakable little cad, and, if the drawing-room had not been Mrs Drassilis's, I should have wondered at finding him in it. Mrs Drassilis introduced us. 'I think we have already met,' I said. He stared glassily. 'Don't remember.' I was not surprised. At this moment Cynthia came in. Out of the corner of my eye I observed a look of fuddled displeasure come into Tanky's face at her frank pleasure at seeing me. I had never seen her looking better. She is a tall girl, who carries herself magnificently. The simplicity of her dress gained an added dignity from comparison with the rank glitter of her mother's. She wore unrelieved black, a colour which set off to wonderful advantage the clear white of her skin and her pale-gold hair. 'You're late, Peter,' she said, looking at the clock. 'I know. I'm sorry.' 'Better be pushing, what?' suggested Tanky. 'My cab's waiting.' 'Will you ring the bell, Mr Gifford?' said Mrs Drassilis. 'I will tell Parker to whistle for another.' 'Take me in yours,' I heard a voice whisper in my ear. I looked at Cynthia. Her expression had not changed. Then I looked at Tanky Gifford, and I understood. I had seen that stuffed-fish look on his face before--on the occasion when I had been introduced to him at the Empire. 'If you and Mr Gifford will take my cab,' I said to Mrs Drassilis, 'we will follow.' Mrs Drassilis blocked the motion. I imagine that the sharp note in her voice was lost on Tanky, but it rang out like a clarion to me. 'I am in no hurry,' she said. 'Mr Gifford, will you take Cynthia? I will follow with Mr Burns. You will meet Parker on the stairs. Tell him to call another cab.' As the door closed behind them, she turned on me like a many-coloured snake. 'How can you be so extraordinarily tactless, Peter?' she cried. 'You're a perfect fool. Have you no eyes?' 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'He's devoted to her.' 'I'm sorry.' 'What do you mean?' 'Sorry for her.' She seemed to draw herself together inside her dress. Her eyes glittered. My mouth felt very dry, and my heart was beginning to thump. We were both furiously angry. It was a moment that had been coming for years, and we both knew it. For my part I was glad that it had come. On subjects on which one feels deeply it is a relief to speak one's mind.