the right, the proper, hour had come, was nearly gone, before Soames and
Irene seated themselves under the Achilles statue.

It was some time since he had enjoyed her company in the Park. That was
one of the past delights of the first two seasons of his married life,
when to feel himself the possessor of this gracious creature before all
London had been his greatest, though secret, pride. How many afternoons
had he not sat beside her, extremely neat, with light grey gloves and
faint, supercilious smile, nodding to acquaintances, and now and again
removing his hat.

His light grey gloves were still on his hands, and on his lips his smile
sardonic, but where the feeling in his heart?

The seats were emptying fast, but still he kept her there, silent and
pale, as though to work out a secret punishment. Once or twice he made
some comment, and she bent her head, or answered "Yes" with a tired
smile.

Along the rails a man was walking so fast that people stared after him
when he passed.

"Look at that ass!" said Soames; "he must be mad to walk like that in
this heat!"

He turned; Irene had made a rapid movement.

"Hallo!" he said: "it's our friend the Buccaneer!"

And he sat still, with his sneering smile, conscious that Irene was
sitting still, and smiling too.

"Will she bow to him?" he thought.

But she made no sign.

Bosinney reached the end of the rails, and came walking back amongst the
chairs, quartering his ground like a pointer. When he saw them he
stopped dead, and raised his hat.

The smile never left Soames' face; he also took off his hat.

Bosinney came up, looking exhausted, like a man after hard physical
exercise; the sweat stood in drops on his brow, and Soames' smile seemed
to say: "You've had a trying time, my friend ......What are you doing in
the Park?" he asked. "We thought you despised such frivolity!"

Bosinney did not seem to hear; he made his answer to Irene: "I've been
round to your place; I hoped I should find you in."

Somebody tapped Soames on the back, and spoke to him; and in the exchange
of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her answer, and took a
resolution.

"We're just going in," he said to Bosinney; "you'd better come back to
dinner with us." Into that invitation he put a strange bravado, a
stranger pathos: "You, can't deceive me," his look and voice seemed
saying, "but see--I trust you--I'm not afraid of you!"

They started back to Montpellier Square to