I was driven to tell Margaret about our situation by my intolerable dread that otherwise the thing might come to her through some stupid and clumsy informant. She might even meet Altiora, and have it from her. I can still recall the feeling of sitting at my desk that night in that large study of mine in Radnor Square, waiting for Margaret to come home. It was oddly like the feeling of a dentist's reception-room; only it was for me to do the dentistry with clumsy, cruel hands. I had left the door open so that she would come in to me. I heard her silken rustle on the stairs at last, and then she was in the doorway. “May I come in?” she said. “Do,” I said, and turned round to her. “Working?” she said. “Hard,” I answered. “Where have YOU been?” “At the Vallerys'. Mr. Evesham was talking about you. They were all talking. I don't think everybody knew who I was. Just Mrs. Mumble I'd been to them. Lord Wardenham doesn't like you.” “He doesn't.” “But they all feel you're rather big, anyhow. Then I went on to Park Lane to hear a new pianist and some other music at Eva's.” “Yes.” “Then I looked in at the Brabants' for some midnight tea before I came on here. They'd got some writers--and Grant was there.” “You HAVE been flying round....” There was a little pause between us. I looked at her pretty, unsuspecting face, and at the slender grace of her golden-robed body. What gulfs there were between us! “You've been amused,” I said. “It's been amusing. You've been at the House?” “The Medical Education Bill kept me.”... After all, why should I tell her? She'd got to a way of living that fulfilled her requirements. Perhaps she'd never hear. But all that day and the day before I'd been making up my mind to do the thing. “I want to tell you something,” I said. “I wish you'd sit down for a moment or so.”... Once I had begun, it seemed to me I had to go through with it. Something in the quality of my voice gave her an intimation of unusual gravity. She looked at me steadily for a moment and sat down slowly in my armchair. “What is it?” she said. I went on awkwardly. “I've got to tell you--something extraordinarily distressing,” I said. She was manifestly altogether unaware. “There seems to be a good deal of scandal abroad--I've only recently heard of it--about myself--and Isabel.” “Isabel!” I nodded. “What do they say?” she asked. It was difficult, I found, to speak. “They say she's my mistress.” “Oh! How abominable!” She spoke with the most natural indignation. Our eyes met. “We've been great friends,” I said. “Yes. And to make THAT of it. My poor dear! But how can they?” She paused and looked at me. “It's so incredible. How can any one believe it? I couldn't.” She stopped, with her distressed eyes regarding me. Her expression changed to dread. There was a tense stillness for a second, perhaps. I turned my face towards the desk, and took up and dropped a handful of paper fasteners.