Whether Lord Holme succeeded or not, Lady Holme had no opportunity--even if she desired it--of speaking to Rupert Carey for some time. He left London and went up to the North to stay with his mother. The only person he saw before he went was Robin Pierce. He came round to Half Moon Street early on the afternoon of the day after the Arkell House Ball. Robin was at home and Carey walked in with his usual decision. He was very pale, and his face looked very hard. Robin received him coldly and did not ask him to sit down. That was not necessary, of course. But Robin was standing by the door and did not move back into the room. “I’m going North to-night,” said Carey. “Are you?” “Yes. If you don’t mind I’ll sit down.” Robin said nothing. Carey threw himself into an armchair. “Going to see the mater. A funny thing--but she’s always glad to see me.” “Why not?” “Mothers have a knack that way. Lucky for sons like me.” There was intense bitterness in his voice, but there was a sound of tenderness too. Robin shut the door but did not sit down. “Are you going to be in the country long?” “Don’t know. What time did you leave Arkell House last night?” “Not till after Lady Holme left.” “Oh!” He was silent for a moment, biting his red moustache. “Were you in the hall after the last lancers?” “No.” “You weren’t?” He spoke quickly, with a sort of relief, hesitated then added sardonically: “But of course you know--and much worse than the worst. The art of conversation isn’t dead yet, whatever the--perhaps you saw me being got out?” “No, I didn’t.” “But you do know?” “Naturally.” “I say, I wish you’d let me have--” He checked himself abruptly, and muttered: “Good God! What a brute I am.” He sprang up and walked about the room. Presently he stopped in front of the statuette of the “_Danseuse de Tunisie_.” “Is it the woman that does it all, or the fan?” he said. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s one, and sometimes the other. Without the fan there’s purity, what’s meant from the beginning--” “By whom?” said Robin. “I thought you were an atheist?” “Oh, God! I don’t know what I am.” He turned away from the statuette. “With the fan there’s so much more than purity, than what was meant to complete us--as devils--men. But--mothers don’t carry the fan. And I’m going North to-night.” “Do you mean to say that Lady Holme--?” Robin’s voice was stern. “Why did she say that to me?” “What did she say?” “That she wished to speak to me, to dance with me.” “She said that? How can you know?” “Oh, I wasn’t so drunk that I couldn’t hear the voice from Eden. Pierce, you know her. She likes you. Tell her to forgive as much as she can. Will you? And tell her not to carry the fan again when fools like me are about.” And then, without more words, he went out of the room and left Robin standing alone. Robin looked at the statuette, and remembered what Sir Donald Ulford had said directly he saw it--“Forgive me, that fan makes that statuette wicked.”