"I thought you knew he was at Newmarket." "Well! Take it as you like, and think me an interfering ass if you choose, but if I were you I'd somehow get Chetwode back from Newmarket,--and not go about so much with Mrs. Ogilvie." "Why not, Savile?" "Well, I shouldn't begin that drifting apart business, _just_ yet. It's really rather rot, quite so soon. You're too young, and so on--been married a year, and I'm hanged if he's not fond of you still! Why do it? That's what I say----" "A person may be very devoted, _and_ a perfect husband, and sweet in every way, and not dream of drifting apart for ages and ages, and yet want to see Tobacco Trust run, darling!" "I know,--and I've put my last shilling on Penultimate!" "Naughty boy! I hope it was really your last shilling,--not your last sovereign!" He laughed, kissed her, and walked downstairs, softly humming to himself, "Gin a body meet a body...." When he had gone, Felicity looked quite sensible for a little while as she pondered indulgently on the weaknesses of her husband, cheerfully on the troubles of her brother, and with some real sisterly anxiety concerning the alarming attractions of Frank Woodville. CHAPTER II THE TRIALS OF WOODVILLE Several hours of the morning had been passed by Woodville in an occupation that, one might think, would easily pall on a spirited young man--addressing envelopes and filling in invitation cards. The cards stated with tedious repetition that Miss Crofton and Sir James Crofton, M.P., would be At Home on the 30th April at ten o'clock. In the left-hand corner were the words, "Herr Yung's White Viennese Orchestra." Woodville's desk was close to the long French window, which opened on to a charming garden. From this garden came the sound of excited twitterings of birds and other pleasant suggestions of spring. Suddenly a tall and graceful young girl, with hair like sunshine, came up to the open window and smiled at him. She held up to show him some wonderful mauve and blue hyacinths that she carried, and then passed on. Woodville sighed. _It_ was too symbolic. The scent lingered. Like a half-remembered melody, it seemed to have the insidious power of recalling something in the past that was too wonderful ever to have happened, and of suggesting vague hopes of the most improbable joys. Sylvia seemed to the young man the incarnation of April. He put down his pen, and shaded his eyes with his hand. Then the inner door from the hall opened, and a pompous but genial voice exclaimed with heavy briskness-- "Well, Woodville, finished, eh?" "Not yet, Sir James, but I can go on later, if you want me now." The secretary spoke with a deference that seemed surprising. He did not look like a man who would be supple to an employer, or obsequious to any one--even a woman.