Among these was Morland. But for him neither blue September skies nor amiable duchesses had any charm. To the man of easy living had come the sudden shock of tragedy, and the music and the teacups and the flatteries seemed parts of a ghastly farce. The paragraph he had read in the paper that morning obsessed him. The hours had seemed one long shudder against which he vainly braced his nerves. He had loved the poor girl in his facile way. The news in itself was enough to bring him face to face with elementals. But there was another terror added. The chance word of a laughing woman had put him on the rack of anxiety. Getting out of the train at Cosford, she had seen the queerest figure of a man step on to the platform, with the face of Peter the Hermit and the costume of Mr. Stiggins. Morland's first impulse had been to retreat precipitately from Cosford, and take the next train to London, whither he ought to have gone that morning. The tradition-bred Englishman's distaste for craven flight kept him irresolutely hanging round the duchess. He thought of whispering a private word to Jimmie; but Jimmie was far away, being introduced here and there, apparently enjoying considerable popularity. Besides, the whisper would involve the tale of the newspaper paragraph, and Morland shrank from confiding such news to Jimmie. No one on earth must know it save his legal adviser, an impersonal instrument of protection. He did what he had done once during five horrible weeks at Oxford, when an Abingdon barmaid threatened him with a breach of promise action. He did nothing and trusted to luck. Happy chance brought to light the fact that she was already married. Happy chance might save him again. Beyond the mere commonplaces of civility he had exchanged no words that day with Norma. Moved by an irritating feeling of shame coupled with a certain repugnance of the flesh, he had deliberately avoided her; and his preoccupation had not allowed him to perceive that the avoidance was reciprocated. When they happened to meet in their movements among the guests, they smiled at each other mechanically and went their respective ways. Once, during the afternoon, Mr. Hardacre, red and fussy, took him aside. “I have just heard a couple of infernal old cats talking of Norma and that fellow Weever. There they are together now. Will you give Norma a hint, or shall I?” Morland looked up and saw the pair on the terrace, midway between the band and the Guignol audience. “I'm glad she has got somebody to amuse her,” he said, turning away. He was almost grateful to Weever for taking Norma off his hands.