ss of her tone I divined that the idea
of moral qualities lurking in the nature of Lola Brandt occasioned her
considerable displeasure.

"I hope----" She paused. There was another ripple. "No. I had better not
say it. It's none of my business, after all."

"I don't think it is, my dear," said I.

Rogers bringing in the cutlets ended the snippet of talk.

It was not the cheeriest of dinners. I took advantage of the next
interval of quiet to inquire after Dale. I learned that the poor boy had
almost collapsed after the election and was now yachting with young Lord
Essendale somewhere about the Hebrides. Agatha had not seen him, but
Lady Kynnersley had called on her one day in a distracted frame of mind,
bitterly reproaching me for the unhappiness of her son. I should never
have suspected that such fierce maternal love could burn beneath Lady
Kynnersley's granite exterior. She accused me of treachery towards Dale
and, most illogically, of dishonourable conduct towards herself.

"She said things about you," said Agatha, "for which, even if they
were true, I couldn't forgive her. So that's an end of that friendship.
Indeed, it has been very difficult, Simon," she continued, "to keep
up with our common friends. It has placed us in the most painful and
delicate position. And now you're back, I'm afraid it will be worse."

Thus under all Agatha's affection there ran the general hostility of
London. Guilty or not, I had offended her in her most deeply rooted
susceptibilities, and as yet she only knew half the imbroglio in which I
was enmeshed. Over coffee, however, she began to take a more optimistic
view of affairs.

"After all, you'll be able to live it down," she said with a cheerful
air of patronage. "People soon forget. Before the year is out you'll
be going about just as usual, and at the General Election you'll find a
seat somewhere."

I informed her that I had given up politics. What then, she asked, would
I do for an occupation?

"Work for my living," I replied.

"Work?" She arched her eyebrows, as if it were the most extraordinary
thing a man could do. "What kind of work?"

"Road-sweeping or tax-collecting or envelope-addressing."

She selected a cigarette from the silver box in front of her, and did
not reply until she had lit it and inhaled a puff or two.

"I wish you wouldn't be so flippant, Simon."

From this remark I inferred that I still was in the criminal dock before
this lady Chief Justice. I