“Of course, when we got back it had to be different. Friends came in, and she was run after and admired and written about. You know the publicity of life in modern London.” “City of public-houses and society spies.” “I bore it, because it’s supposed to be the thing. And Vere rather likes it, somehow. So I let her have her fun, as long as it was fun. I didn’t intend it should ever be anything else.” He frowned. When he did that, and his thick eyebrows nearly met, he looked all Italian. “We did the usual things--Paris, Ascot, Scotland, and so on--till Vere had to lie up.” “Your boy?” “Yes; Hugo came along. I was glad when that was over. I thought she was going to die. You knew Seymour Glynd?” “Life Guards? Killed hunting a year ago?” Inley nodded. “He was a great deal with us soon after Hugo’s birth. I thought nothing of it. I’d known the fellow all my life. But then one nearly always has.” He laughed bitterly. “To cut that part short, two years ago in autumn we had Glynd staying with us down here for shooting. There were some others, of course--Mrs. Jack, Bobbie Elphinton, and Lady Bobbie--but you know the lot.” “I did.” “Ah,” he said, “you’ve been well out of it these years. Well, the shoot was to break up on a Friday, and I’d arranged to go to town that day with the rest. Vere didn’t intend to come. She said she was feeling tired, and was going to have a Friday to Monday rest cure. That’s the thing, you know, nowadays. You get a Swedish _masseuse_ down to stay, and go to bed and drink milk. Vere had engaged a _masseuse_ to come on the Friday night. On the Thursday, the day before we were all going to town, Glynd hurt his foot getting over a fence into a turnip field--at least I thought so.” He stopped.