At five o'clock the next afternoon he presented himself at the house of
mourning, and completely filled up its small entrance-hall.

He was shown into the drawing-room, where he discovered Miss Margaret
Delafield in the act of dragging her hat off in front of the mirror over
the mantelpiece. He heard a suppressed exclamation of amused horror, and
found himself shaking hands with Mrs. Sydney Bamborough.

The lady mentioned Paul's name and her cousin's relationship in that
casual manner which constitutes an introduction in these degenerate
days. Miss Delafield bowed, laughed, and moved toward the door. She left
the room, and behind her an impression of breeziness and health, of
English girlhood and a certain bright cheerfulness which acts as a
filter in social muddy waters.

"It is very good of you to come--I was moping," said Mrs. Sydney
Bamborough. She was, as a matter of fact, resting before the work of the
evening. This lady thoroughly understood the art of being beautiful.

Paul did not answer at once. He was looking at a large photograph which
stood in a frame on the mantelpiece--the photograph of a handsome man of
twenty-eight or thirty, small-featured, fair, and shifty looking.

"Who is that?" he asked abruptly.

"Do you not know? My husband."

Paul muttered an apology, but he did not turn away from the photograph.

"Oh, never mind," said Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, in reply to his regret