Poor Mr Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blushed a good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very blue, and that when he was blue he was awfully fierce. ‘You can ask Miss Stackpole, you know. I was at Gardencourt two days ago.’

‘Did you see my cousin?’

‘Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton had been there the day before. Ralph was just the same as usual, except that he was in bed and that he looks tremendously ill and that he can’t speak,’ Mr Bantling pursued. ‘He was awfully jolly and funny all the same. He was just as clever as ever. It’s awfully wretched.’

Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. ‘Was that late in the day?’

‘Yes; I went on purpose. We thought you’d like to know.’

‘I’m greatly obliged to you. Can I go down to-night?’

‘Ah, I don’t think she’ll let you go,’ said Mr Bantling. ‘She wants you to stop with her. I made Touchett’s man promise to telegraph me to-day, and I found the telegram an hour ago at my club. “Quiet and easy”, that’s what it says, and it’s dated two o’clock. So you see you can wait till to-morrow. You must be awfully tired.’

‘Yes, I’m awfully tired. And I thank you again.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Bantling, ‘we were certain you would like the last news.’ On which Isabel vaguely noted that he and Henrietta seemed after all to agree. Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel’s maid, whom she had caught in the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead of losing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress’s luggage, so that the latter was now at liberty to leave the station. ‘You know you’re not to think of going to the country to-night,’ Henrietta remarked to her. ‘It doesn’t matter whether there’s a train or not. You’re to come straight to me in Wimpole Street. There isn’t a corner to be had in London, but I’ve got you one all the same. It isn’t a Roman palace, but it will do for a night.’

‘I’ll do whatever you wish,’ Isabel said.

‘You’ll come and answer a few questions; that’s what I wish.’

‘She doesn’t say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs Osmond?’ Mr Bantling enquired jocosely.

Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. ‘I see you’re in a great hurry to get your own. You’ll be at the Paddington Station to-morrow morning at ten.’

‘Don’t come for my sake, Mr Bantling,’ said Isabel.

‘He’ll come for mine,’ Henrietta declared as she ushered her friend into a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole street—to do her justice there had been dinner enough—she asked those questions to which she had alluded at the station. ‘Did your husband make you a scene about your coming?’ That was Miss Stackpole’s first enquiry.

‘No; I can’t say he made a scene.’

‘He didn’t object then?’

‘Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you’d call a scene.’

‘What was it then?’