As he moved over the sunlit gravel in her direction she asked herself for the hundredth time what she meant to do about it. Marry him? God forbid! Even if she had been sure--and in her heart of hearts she wasn’t--that he intended to give her the chance. Fall in love with him? That too she shrugged away. Let him make love to her? Well a little ... perhaps ... when one was too lonely ... and because he was the only man at all “possible” in their set.... But what she most wanted of him was simply to fill certain empty hours; to know that when she came home at five he would be waiting there, half the days of the week, by her tea-table; that when she dined out, people would be sure to invite him and put him next to her; that when there was no bridge or Mah-Jongg going he would always be ready for a tour of the antiquity shops, and so sharp at picking up bargains for the little flat she had in view. That was all she wanted of him; perhaps all he wanted of her. But the possibility of his wanting more (at which the violets seemed to hint) produced an uncertainty not wholly disagreeable, especially when he and she met in company, and she guessed the other women’s envy. “One has to have something to help one out--” It was the old argument of the drug-takers: well, call Lord Charles her drug! Why not, when she was so visibly his? She settled herself in a garden-chair and watched his approach. It was a skilful bit of manœuvring: she knew he intended to “eliminate the bores” and join her only when there was no danger of their being disturbed. She could imagine how, in old days, he would have stalked contemptuously through such a company, without a glance to right or left. But not now. He had reached a phase in his decline when it became prudent to pause and admire the view at Mrs. Plush’s side, exchange affabilities with the Consul’s wife, nod familiarly to Mr. Paly, and even suffer himself to be boisterously hailed by Mrs. Horace Betterly, who came clinking down the loggia steps to shout out a reminder that they counted on him for dinner that evening. It was the fate of those who had to stuff their days full, and could no longer be particular about the quality of the stuffing. Kate could almost see the time when Lord Charles, very lean and wizened, would be collecting china frogs for Mrs. Plush. He was half-way across the terrace when a sudden expanding and agitating of Mrs. Plush’s plumes seemed to forerun the approach of the Bishop. An impressive black figure appeared under the central arch of the loggia. Mrs. Plush surged forward, every fold of her draperies swelling: but the new arrival was not the Bishop--it was only Mrs. Minity who, clothed in black cashmere and majesty, paused and looked about her.