“I have no fancy,” he declared, “for the cemeteries of affection. You must remember that I am beginning life anew. I do not know myself yet, or you! Let us drift into the knowledge of one another, and perhaps--” “Well! Perhaps?” “There may be no question of friendship!” Lady Ruth went back to her guests, and with the effortless ease of long training, she became once more the gracious and tactful hostess. But in her heart, the fear had grown a little stronger, and a specter walked by her side. Once during the evening, her husband looked at her questioningly, and she breathed a few words to him. He laughed reassuringly. “Oh! Wingrave’s all right, I believe,” he said, “it’s only his manner that puts you off a bit. He’s just the same with everyone! I don’t think he means anything by it!” Lady Ruth shivered, but she said nothing. Just then Aynesworth came up, and with a motion of her fan she called him to her. “Please take me into the other room,” she said “I want a glass of champagne, and on the way you can tell me all about America.” “One is always making epigrams about America,” he protested, smiling. “Won’t you spare me?” “Tell me, then, how you progress with your great character study!” “Ah!” he remarked quietly, “you come now to a more interesting subject.” “Yes?” “Frankly, I do not progress at all.” “So far as you have gone?” “If,” he said, “I were to take pen and paper and write down, at this moment, my conclusions so far as I have been able to form any, I fancy that they would make evil reading. Permit me!” They stood for a few minutes before the long sideboard. A footman had poured champagne into their glasses, and Lady Ruth talked easily enough the jargon of the moment. But when they turned away, she moved slowly, and her voice was almost a whisper. “Tell me this,” she said, “is he really as hard and cold as he seems? You have lived with him now for four years. You should know that, at least.” “I believe that he is,” Aynesworth answered. “I can tell you that much, at least, without breach of faith. So far as one who watches him can tell, he lives for his own gratification--and his indulgence in it does not, as a rule, make for the happiness of other people.” “Then what does he want with us?” she asked almost sharply. “I ask myself that question until--I am terrified.” Aynesworth hesitated. “It is very possible,” he said, “that he is simply making use of you to re-enter the world. Curiously enough, he has never seemed to care for solitude. He makes numberless acquaintances. What pleasure he finds in it I do not know, but he seldom avoids people. He may be simply making use of you.” “What do you think yourself?” “I cannot tell,” Aynesworth answered. “Indeed I cannot tell.”