“Taking it rather badly, I suppose,” she remarked with a reversion to her grim manner. “She is miserable. As I told you, it means all the world to her—her very salvation.” Clementina caught the note of deep pleading in his voice and fixed him with her shrewd eyes. “You seem to concern yourself very deeply about the lady.” Huckaby glanced at her for a moment hesitatingly; then shrugged his shoulders. Clementina was a woman to whom straight dealing counted for righteousness. He gave her his secret. “I’ve grown to care for her—to care for her very much. I know I’m a fool, but I can’t help it.” “Do you know anything of the lady’s private affairs—financial, I mean—how much she has honestly of her own?” “Four hundred pounds a year.” “And you?” “When I take up the appointment of the Anthropological Society I shall have five hundred.” “Nine hundred pounds. Have you any idea of the minimum rate per annum at which she would accept salvation?” “No,” said Huckaby in a dazed way. “Well, work it out,” said Clementina. “Good-bye.” Her second sortie into the great world was on the occasion of a garden-party at the Quinns. Lady Quinn had asked her verbally at Quixtus’s dinner and had sent her a formal card. Knowing that Quixtus was going and more than suspecting that the enemy would be there too, she had kept her own invitation a secret. Welcomed, flattered, surrounded by the gay crowd in the large, pleasant Hampstead garden, it was some time before she saw Mrs. Fontaine. At last she caught sight of her sitting with Quixtus, at the end of the garden, half screened by a tree-trunk from the mass of guests. As soon as Clementina could work her way through, she advanced quickly and smiling towards them. Quixtus sprang to his feet and seemed to take a deep breath as a man does when he flings bedroom windows wide open on his first morning in mountain air. “Clementina! I hadn’t the dimmest notion that you were coming! How delightful!” He surveyed her for a moment as she stood before him; parasol on shoulder. Clementina with a parasol! “Pray forgive my impertinence,” said he, “but you’re wearing the most beautiful dress I ever saw.” It was hand-painted muslin—a fabulous thing. She laughed, turned to Lena Fontaine, demure in a simple fawn costume. “He’s improving. Have you ever known him to compliment a woman on her dress before?” “Many times,” said Mrs. Fontaine, mendaciously. “It must be your excellent training,” said Clementina. She turned to Quixtus. “I’ve seen Huckaby this morning, and everything’s quite arranged for the transportation of your necessary books and specimens down to Moleham. He’ll do it beautifully even though it takes a pantechnicon van, and you won’t be worried about it at all. He’s a splendid fellow.” “He is rendering me invaluable assistance.” “Dr. Quixtus tells me he is quite an old friend of yours, Mrs. Fontaine,” said Clementina. “What a pity you can’t be persuaded to come down to Moleham.”