sk of
offending you, I must tell you that it is not clever of you to take
things so very much _au serieux_. I know more than you think, Philip.
Mrs. Sylvester, who means well, doubtless--but, _mon Dieu_, what a
woman!--Mrs. Sylvester has been here; she has spoken to me, and I am
afraid I have scandalized her. 'You don't suppose he has married
her,' I said, I confess not altogether disingenuously, and how
mystified she looked! You will say that Mrs. Sylvester ought to mind
her own affairs, and you will even find me a trifle impertinent,
perhaps. But I claim my privilege. Am I not your godmother? Still, I
am rather intrigued, I own. I don't want to ask what you have done,
or why; whatever it is, I approve of it. What I find fault with is
what you are doing, the part you are playing. You must not give me
the chagrin of seeing Mrs. Sylvester and the admirable Charles
triumphant at your expense, Philip. You must show yourself: you must
come and see me; you must come to dinner forthwith, or I shall have
to make you a visit at your dock. I must talk to you, mon cher! I am
troubled about you, and so is Mary. Come to us, and Mary shall play
to you and exorcise your demons. Besides, I am bored--horribly
bored. Yes, even Mary bores me sometimes, and I her, doubtless; and
we want you. We will own that we are selfish, after all, but you
must come!"

Then there was a postscript: "Mary suggests that possibly you are
not so incomprehensible as I think; perhaps you are at Bordighera?
But you ought to let us know."

Rainham sat with the letter before him until Margot came to bid him
good-night. And then he decided to take advantage of the suggestion
of the postscript: surely, if he did not answer the dear old lady's
letter, she would conclude that he was indeed upon his travels.

CHAPTER XXVI

If Eve could have mended her idol discreetly and permanently, so
that for the outward world it would still present the same
uncompromising surface, so that no inquisitive or bungling touch
could bring to light the grim, disfiguring fracture which it had
sustained, it is probable that she would have chosen this part, and
hidden the grief of her life from the eyes of all save those who
were so inseparably connected with the tragedy of that autumnal
afternoon. But it was so completely shattered, the pieces were so
many; and, worst of all, some of them were lost. To forget! What a
world of bitter irony was in the word! And she could not