"That is quite true, my friend," she said, "but what of it? You have
no special claim, have you, to monopolise my society?--you nor any man.
You are all my friends."

There was a knock at the door--a maid entered.

"Her ladyship will excuse me," she said, "but she is dining at
Dowchester House to-night at eight o'clock."

Emily rose and held out her hand to Drexley.

"Quite right, Marie," she said. "I see that I must hurry. You will
remember, my friend."

"I will remember," he answered quietly.

He walked eastwards across the park, not briskly as a strong man with
the joy of living in his veins, but with slow, dejected footsteps, his
great shoulders bent, his heart heavy. Physically he was sound enough,
yet the springs of life seemed slack, and a curious lassitude, a
weariness of heart and limbs came over him as he passed through the
crowds of well-dressed men, his fellows, yet, to his mind, creatures of
some other world. He sank into an empty seat, and watched them with
lack-lustre eyes. Why had this thing come to him, he wondered, of all
men? He was middle-aged, unimaginative, shrewd and well balanced in his
whole outlook upon life. Three years ago no man in the world would have
appeared less likely to become the wreck he now felt himself--three
years ago he had met Emily de Reuss. With a certain fierce eagerness he
set himself to face his position. Surely he was still a man? Escape