The delicate play of mind of a pretty and highly cultured woman was a novelty as rare to him as the bubbling of champagne in his apprentice days. He had gone expecting to endure the inane small-talk which his second-hand experience persuaded him was the inevitable adjunct of a lady’s tea-table; he had found conversation upon all the subjects dear to him invested with a charm such as he had never before imagined. Talk on social questions had ever been with him a deeply serious matter. Lady Phayre had brought into it an unknown lightness, a sparkle, a mental keenness, against which his own intellect sharpened itself, and at the same time a bewildering waywardness that never allowed him to forget she was a woman. In short, Lady Phayre was a revelation. He walked along with a buoyant step, like a man who has made a new discovery that promises to change the old order of things. After a short interval a pretext arose for repeating the visit. He was careful to magnify its importance for the sake of self-justification. But on the third occasion he owned to himself that he had called out of sheer desire for Lady Phayre’s society. As he stood, hat in hand, in the drawing-room waiting for her, he had a feeling of misgiving curiously like that of a boy who is fearful lest he is taking too great advantage of a kindly neighbour’s invitation to visit his fruit garden. Her smile of welcome, however, as she entered, reassured him. “How good of you to come. I had a bit of a headache, and was beginning to mope by myself.” “I too felt as if it would do me good to have a talk with you,” said Goddard, seating himself. “Surely you don’t mope?” said Lady Phayre, lifting her eyebrows. “O Lord, no!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “I have too much to do.” “I wish I were a man,” sighed Lady Phayre. “I don’t,” said Goddard. “If you were, I don’t think I should have wanted so much to come and see you.” “Well, how am I to do you good? Will tea comfort you?” “I think it would,” replied Goddard, smiling--“out of your gossamer tea-cups, and with imperceptible films of bread and butter. They seem outside of the uses of the weary, work-a-day world.” “You shall have them, and until they come you shall tell me all the news. I have heard nothing for two days.” He opened his budget. It was somewhat heavy. The lighter trifles of political gossip were beyond his range; but Lady Phayre listened attentively, adroitly brought him to his own part in current affairs. He had just been on a committee of the League, in the north of England, inquiring into the working of the Factory Act for women in certain trades. He had visited many white-lead works, where he had felt daunted by the inevitableness of the sacrifice of human health and happiness. “But manufacturers are obliged to enforce precautions,” said Lady Phayre. Goddard waved his hand impatiently.