Fox had known many of these things when White received his portfolio, but his later discoveries had placed him in a position where he no longer cared to be so frequent a guest in White’s house; to break bread with the man who had wilfully maligned him was an offence to his coldly scrupulous pride. Fox was careless of public opinion, fond of indulging his own whims and fancies, and easy in his tolerance of offenders against himself, but when a man transgressed the laws that he laid down in matters of personal honor and integrity he could be uncompromisingly severe and contemptuous. Of late, therefore, Fox had absented himself from White’s table and from those evenings--famous among the favored few who obtained invitations--when Margaret entertained the brains and the talent of the capital. Literary men were always there, artists, musicians, scientists; it was said of Mrs. White that she would entertain a famous thief if he had wit. But there had been another and a more potent attraction for Fox; he had found the seclusion of Judge Temple’s library, the old judge’s slow and studious speech, the magnificent voice of Rose, more potent charms than the conversation and music of Margaret’s _salon_. Having discovered the temperamental sympathy and ingenuous friendship in this young and beautiful girl, Fox had begun to pursue that interesting study of character which leads to but one result--whether it be tragic or happy. At this stage, too, of the matter, Fox ignored the feelings and the possible claims of his less brilliant cousin; he was aware that Allestree loved Rose, but he considered it as an affair of little moment because he perceived clearly that Rose did not love him, that not even the most scrupulous adjuration on his own part could convert her indifference into a more tender feeling toward the painter. At first he had entertained very little serious thought of the matter, but the charm of Rose’s personality, both spiritual and physical, had very soon begun to take hold of his imagination, and if he secretly compared her fresh, sweet immaturity with Margaret’s worldliness and finish it was to plunge the thought instantly into oblivion. The girl was so young, so fresh, so easily responsive to his wit and his eloquence, that it was like discovering a pure and beautiful flower in a hedge of thorns. Between his work, therefore, and his study of Rose he had managed to refuse more than one invitation to the Whites’, and his absence was beginning to be sharply observed. There was a rumor that White had quarrelled with him about Margaret, that Margaret had herself openly dismissed him, that he was vexed at the loss of the Cabinet place; in short, the usual crop of idle ingenious stories which spring up in the height of a winter season, like a growth of noxious weeds, were in full bloom and strength.