Almost the first person that Gaston recognised in London was Cluny Vosse. He had been to Victoria Station to see a friend off by the train, and as he was leaving, Gaston and he recognised each other. The lad’s greeting was a little shy until he saw that Gaston was cool and composed as usual--in effect, nothing had happened. Cluny was delighted, and opened his mind: “They’d kicked up a deuce of a row in the papers, and there’d been no end of talk; but he didn’t see what all the babble was about, and he’d said so again and again to Lady Dargan.” “And Lady Dargan, Cluny?” asked Gaston quietly. Cluny could not be dishonest, though he would try hard not to say painful things. “Well, she was a bit fierce at first--she’s a woman, you know; but afterwards she went like a baby; cried, and wouldn’t stay at Cannes any longer: so we’re back in town. We’re going down to the country, though, to-morrow or next day.” “Do you think I had better call, Cluny?” Gaston ventured suggestively. “Yes, yes, of course,” Cluny replied, with great eagerness, as if to justify the matter to himself. Gaston smiled, said that he might,--he was only in town for a few days, and dropped Cluny in Pall Mall. Cluny came running back. “I say, Belward, things’ll come around just as they were before, won’t they? You’re going to cut in, and not let ‘em walk on you?” “Yes, I’m ‘going to cut in,’ Cluny boy.” Cluny brightened. “And of course it isn’t all over with Delia, is it?” He blushed. Gaston reached out and dropped a hand on Cluny’s shoulder. “I’m afraid it is all over, Cluny.” Cluny spoke without thinking. “I say, it’s rough on her, isn’t it?” Then he was confused, hurriedly offered Gaston a cigarette, a hasty good-bye was said, and they parted. Gaston went first to Lord Faramond. He encountered inquisition, cynical humour, flashes of sympathy, with a general flavour of reproach. The tradition of the Commons! Ah, one way only: he must come back alone--alone--and live it down. Fortunately, it wasn’t an intrigue--no matter of divorce--a dompteuse, he believed. It must end, of course, and he would see what could be done. Such a chance--such a chance as he had had! Make it up with his grandfather, and reverse the record--reverse the record: that was the only way. This meeting must, of course, be strictly between themselves. But he was really interested for him, for his people, and for the tradition of the Commons. “I am Master of the Hounds too,” said Gaston dryly. Lord Faramond caught the meaning, and smiled grimly. Then came Gaston’s decision--he would come back--not to live the thing down, but to hold his place as long as he could: to fight. Lord Faramond shrugged a shoulder. “Without her?” “I cannot say that.” “With her, I can promise nothing--nothing. You cannot fight it so. No one man is stronger than massed opinion. It is merely a matter of pressure. No, no; I can promise nothing in that case.”