“Ah, Ethel, you’ll never make a conversationalist; you should learn to give and never take. Here’s Francis—I call all waiters Francis, it reminds me of the Boar’s Head—he’s one of my tame waiters. It pays to have a tame waiter everywhere.” The time went by quickly, Geraldstein exerting himself to please Marian, who for her part enjoyed herself thoroughly. The good talk, the good wine and good food, the atmosphere of gayety, the sense of freedom, intoxicated her senses, and Geraldstein congratulated himself that he had thought it worth while suffering Ethel Harding for the sake of an introduction to the pretty woman with her. He wondered who she could be and what—evidently not an ordinary woman of the town. The wine heated Marian, who usually drank sparingly, calling a splendid glow to her cheeks and brilliancy to her eyes; many of the men there envied Geraldstein. She listened to his gay chatter and to Ethel Harding’s coarser talk, joining in gayly herself, not caring what she said, uttering every quip and innuendo that came to her lips, and taking the meaning of his delicately-veiled impudences with laughter and railing rejoinders. A woman to go mad about for a time at any rate, thought Geraldstein. But a peculiarly broad remark of Mrs. Harding’s grated on her, and chilled her spirit. She suddenly realized that Geraldstein was examining her points as he would those of a horse or a dog the purchase of which he was considering. She seemed to hear the chink of his gold as he bid for her favors, and the thought sickened her. She could understand the drunkenness of indiscriminate passion or the joy of purchasing power by the pretense of passion, but cold-blooded bargaining with coins disgusted her. It was now past ten o’clock, and she made the hour an excuse for moving. “Don’t let me break up the party; you’re in no hurry, Ethel!” she said, using the Christian name as Mrs. Harding had used hers, “but I must be off.” “Off?” said Geraldstein. “What a pity! It’s quite early.” “Yes, quite early,” Marian answered. “I like being quite early. You settle the bill, Ethel, and I’ll square up with you to-morrow.” “You’ll let me see you into a cab?” Geraldstein protested. “No, thanks. I can look after myself quite well.” Geraldstein did not press the point, and Marian went away alone. CHAPTER XII IT was on one of those warm, sunshiny mornings with which Londoners are sometimes startled in mid January that Maddison drove down to Victoria Station _en route_ for Brighton. So glorious was the weather that, despite his heartache at parting with Marian, he found himself looking forward eagerly to his holiday by the sea. The platform was crowded, and having run himself rather close for time, he found there would be difficulty in securing a comfortable seat. As he made his way along through the din and hubbub a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder and turning round sharply he faced Philip West.