And as they walked, he told them briefly of Hammersley’s death and the Marseilles visit and the return of Quixtus, a changed man, with Clementina and the child. The bee, on which they had reckoned for honey, had left Quixtus’s bonnet. There was no more Bedlamite talk about wickedness. Their occupation as evil counsellors had gone for ever. They had better accept thankfully what they had, and disappear. Any action directed against either Quixtus or Lena Fontaine would automatically bring about the demise of the goose with the golden eggs. At last he convinced them of the futility of blackmail; but they parted from him, each with a burning sense of wrong. Lena Fontaine and Huckaby had put them in the cart. They were left, they were done, they were stung—they were all things that slang has invented to describe the position of men deceived by those in whom they trusted. “And she’s going to marry him,” said Vandermeer. “Huckaby didn’t say so,” replied Billiter. “He didn’t contradict it. She’s going to marry him, and you bet that son of a pawn-ticket will get his commission.” “Well, we can’t help ourselves,” said Billiter. “H’m!” said Vandermeer, darkly. Huckaby, conscious of victory, went home, and taking an old student’s text of the “Phædo” from his shelves, abstracted his mind from the sordid happenings of the modern world. It was a day or two after this adventure of Huckaby’s that Quixtus informed Clementina of his intention of giving a dinner-party, in honour of Tommy and Etta’s engagement. She commended the project; a nice little intimate dinner—— “I’m afraid I’m planning rather a large affair,” said he, apologetically. “A party of about twenty people.” “Lord save us!” cried Clementina, “where are you going to dig them up from?” He stretched out his long, thin legs. They were sitting on a bench in the gardens of Russell Square, Sheila having strayed a few yards to investigate the contents of a perambulator in charge of a smiling and friendly nursemaid. “There are people to whom I owe a return of hospitality,” said he, with a smile, “and I think a certain amount of formality is due to Admiral Concannon.” “All right,” said Clementina, “who are they?” “There are the Admiral and yourself and Tommy and Etta, Lord and Lady Radfield, General and Mrs. Barnes, Sir Edward and Lady Quinn, Doorly—the novelist, you know—Mrs. Fontaine and Lady Louisa Malling——” Clementina stiffened. The blood seemed to flow from her heart, leaving it an intolerable icicle. “Why Mrs. Fontaine?” “Why not?” “Why should Mrs. Fontaine be asked to Etta’s party?” “She’s a charming woman,” said Quixtus. “Just a shallow society hack,” said Clementina, to whom Quixtus had not confided his adventures in the gay world, not through conscious disingenuousness, but assuming that such chronicles would not interest her.