She came one afternoon to his house in Half Moon Street. She had never been there before. She had never meant to go there. To do so was an imprudence. That fact was another of the pleasures with a bitter savour. Robin met her at the head of the stairs, with an air of still excitement not common in his look and bearing. He followed her into the blue room where Sir Donald had talked with Carey. The “_Danseuse de Tunisie_” still presided over it, holding her little marble fan. The open fireplace was filled with roses. The tea-table was already set by the great square couch. Robin shut the door and took out a matchbox. “I am going to make tea,” he said. “Bachelor fashion?” She sat down on the couch and looked round quickly, taking in all the details of the room. He saw her eyes rest on the woman with the fan, but she said nothing about it. He lit a silver spirit lamp and then sat down beside her. “At last!” he said. Lady Holme leaned back in her corner. She was dressed in black, with a small, rather impertinent black toque, in which one pale blue wing of a bird stood up. Her face looked gay and soft, and Robin, who had cunning, recognised that quality of his in her. “I oughtn’t to be here.” “Absurd. Why not?” “Fritz has a jealous temperament.” She spoke with a simple naturalness that moved the diplomat within him to a strong admiration. “You can act far better than Miss Schley,” he said, with intentional bluntness. “I love her acting.” “I’m going away. I shan’t see you for an age. Don’t give me a theatrical performance to-day.” “Can a woman do anything else?” “Yes. She can be a woman.” “That’s stupid--or terrible. What a dear little lamp that is! I like your room.” Robin looked at the blue-grey linen on the walls, at the pale blue wing in her hat, then at her white face. “Viola,” he said, leaning forward, “it’s bad to waste anything in this life, but the worst thing of all is to waste unhappiness. If I could teach you to be niggardly of your tears!” “What do you mean?” She spoke with sudden sharpness. “I never cry. Nothing’s worth a tear,” she added. “Yes, some things are. But not what you are going to weep for.” Her face had changed. The gaiety had gone out of it, and it looked hesitating. “You think I am going to shed tears?” she said. “Why?” “I am glad you let me tell you. For the loss of nothing--a coin that never came out of the mint, that won’t pass current anywhere.” “I’ve lost nothing,” she exclaimed, “nothing. You’re talking nonsense.” He made no reply, but looked at the small, steady flame of the lamp. She followed his eyes, and, when he saw that she was looking at it too, he said: “Isn’t a little, steady flame like that beautiful?” She laughed. “When it means tea--yes. Does it mean tea?” “If you can wait a few minutes.” “I suppose I must. Have you heard anything of Mr. Carey?” Robin looked at her narrowly. “What made you think of him just then?”