Of what the future held for her she did not think. Her mind was concentrated on the struggle through the present. She received a woman caller and chattered over tea as though nothing had happened. The effort braced her, and she felt triumphant over self. She went about on her trivial shopping. She remembered a fitting for a coat and skirt which she had resolved to postpone till after the projected motor jaunt. If she was to live in the world, she must have clothes to cover her. One morning, therefore, she journeyed to the dressmaker’s in Hanover Street, and, the fitting over, wandered through the square, down Conduit Street into Bond Street. At the corner, she ran into Lydia, expensively dressed, creamy, serene. “My dear, you’re looking like a ghost. What have you been doing with yourself?” “Jogging on as usual,” said Olivia. Their acquaintance had not been entirely broken. A few calls had been exchanged. Once Lydia had lunched with Olivia alone in the Buckingham Palace Road. But they had not met since the early part of the year. They strolled slowly down Bond Street. Lydia was full of news. Bobby Quinton had married Mrs. Bellingham—a rich woman twice his age. “The way of the transgressor is soft,” said Olivia. Mauregard was transferred to Rome. His idol, the Russian dancer, had run off with Danimède, the fitter at Luquin’s. Hadn’t Olivia heard? “Where have you been living, my dear child? In a tomb? It has been the talk of London for the past six weeks. They’re in Paris now, and they say she lies down on the floor and lets the little beast kick her. She likes it. There’s no accounting for tastes. Perhaps that’s why she left Mauregard.” In her serene, worldly way, she went through the scandalous chronicles of her galley. She came at last to Edwin Mavenna. Olivia remembered Mavenna? She laughed indulgently. Olivia shuddered at the memory and gripped her hands tight. Mavenna—he mattered little. A beast let loose for a few moments from the darkness. He was eclipsed from her vision by the boyish, grey-clad figure in the moonlight. She scarcely heard Lydia’s chatter. “One must live and let live, you know, in this world. He and Sydney are partners now. I hinted something of the sort at the time. You don’t mind now, do you?” “Not a bit. Why should I?” said Olivia. “That’s really why I’ve not asked you down to our place in Sussex. But if you don’t mind meeting him—he’s quite a good sport really.” Olivia’s eyes wandered up and down the crowded roadway. “I wish I could see an empty taxi,” she said. She had a sudden horror of Lydia—a horror queerly mingled with fierce jealousy. Why should Lydia, with her gross materialism, be leading this unruffled existence? “Are you in a hurry?” Lydia asked placidly. “I’ve an appointment with—my dentist.” “We’ll get in here and wait till we see a taxi,” said Lydia. They stood in the recess of a private doorway, by the bow-window of a print shop.