him. He forced himself into a mood of rather fatuous jocularity. Adela
was at her best in those moods. They would have lots of fun together in
the days to come. Her almost pretty, not too clever face was dimpled
with kittenish glee. Life was a tremendous rag to her. They were
expecting Toccata, the famous opera-singer. She had been engaged at a
very high fee to come on from Covent Garden. Mr. Sandeman was very fond
of music. Adela was laughing, and discussing which was the most
honourable position for the great Sandeman to occupy. There came to
Lowes-Parlby a sudden abrupt misgiving. What sort of wife would this be
to him when they were not just fooling? He immediately dismissed the
curious, furtive little stab of doubt. The splendid proportions of the
room calmed his senses. A huge bowl of dark red roses quickened his
perceptions. His career.... The door opened. But it was not La Toccata.
It was one of the household flunkies. Lowes-Parlby turned again to his
inamorata.

"Excuse me, sir. His lordship says will you kindly go and see him in
the library?"

Lowes-Parlby regarded the messenger, and his heart beat quickly. An
uncontrollable presage of evil racked his nerve-centres. Something had
gone wrong; and yet the whole thing was so absurd, trivial. In a
crisis--well, he could always apologize. He smiled confidently at
Adela, and said:

"Why, of course; with pleasure. Please excuse me, dear." He followed
the impressive servant out of the room. His foot had barely touched the
carpet of the library when he realized that his worst apprehensions
were to be plumbed to the depths. For a moment he thought Lord Vermeer
was alone, then he observed old Stephen Garrit, lying in an easy-chair