Dare lunched alone with Mrs Carruthers. He was a little unpunctual; but she waited for him, and they sat down as soon as he came in. She did not ply him with questions; she kept her curiosity within bounds until the meal was well advanced. He was strangely quiet and preoccupied. She did not know what to make of his dejected silence. Mysteries were worrying to Connie Carruthers' practical nature. It was the flavour of mystery which clung about the happenings next door that caused her, despite the warmth of her affection for Pamela, to avoid the house of late. She had the keen dislike of a healthy minded person for anything in the way of concealment. Discreet reticence was praiseworthy, but furtive silence bred distrust. His visit next door had, it seemed to her, given George Dare the air of a conspirator. Whatever shadow hung over the house had enveloped him in its gloom. It was absurd in her opinion for a man to allow his feeling for a married woman to swamp him in this fashion; it betrayed a lack of dignity and self-respect. Dare did not wait for her to question him; he looked across at her towards the finish of the meal, and plunged of his own accord into the subject. "That man, Arnott, is a double-dyed scoundrel," he said. "He has left that poor girl without a word. She doesn't know where he is even. He doesn't write to her." "I suppose," Mrs Carruthers observed calmly, "if he has eloped with some one else he would be little likely to write to her. Why, in the name of commonsense, did she confide her troubles to you? You will become obsessed with the thought of the divorce court, and carry a ring in your waistcoat pocket in anticipation of the decree absolute. I wish I had eaten my pen before I wrote that letter to you." She became aware of the offence in Dare's look, and was instantly contrite. "George," she said, "I didn't mean to be an unfeeling beast. But you ought not to have come down. You ought not to mix yourself up in the Arnott's affairs. You can't do any good." "Some one's got to see her through," he said. "You haven't done much in the way of helping." "She doesn't confide in me," Mrs Carruthers retorted drily. "Perhaps you haven't given her the opportunity," he returned. "I don't think you have shown a particularly friendly spirit. Why don't you see more of her? She is moped to death." "My dear boy," she replied, wholly unruffled, "it is bad form to push one's self forward where one is obviously not wanted. Forcing confidences is not in my line." She sipped her coffee, and regarded him with interest over the rim of the cup. "I have asked her in here repeatedly, but she invariably pleads the same excuse; she cannot leave the children. I am beginning to think with you that the possession of children is a qualified blessing." Dare made an unexpected exclamation. "Oh, damn the children!"