mself on others. Formerly he had been the wax
that receives the impress. But whereas formerly he had been a contented
man, obviously at peace with himself and with the world, now he was
haunted by some great anxiety, by some strange grief, or perhaps even by
some fear.

"Few men know how terrible the face of the truth can be."

Chichester had said that.

Was he one of the few men?

And was that why now, as Malling walked home in the darkness and rain, he
felt himself humbled, diminished?

For Malling loved knowledge and thought men should live by it. Had truth
a Medusa face, still would he have desired to look into it once, would
have been ready to endure a subsequent turning to stone.

That Chichester should perhaps have seen what he had not seen--that
troubled him, even humbled him.

Some words of Professor Stepton came back to his mind: "If there's
anything in it, development will take place in the link." And those last
words: "If in doubt, study Lady Sophia."

Mailing was in doubt. Why not follow Stepton's advice? Why not study Lady
Sophia?

He resolved to do it. And with the resolve came to him a sense of greater
well-being. The worm-sensation departed from him. He lifted his head and
walked more briskly.

V

On the night following the dinner in Hornton Street, Malling went to the
Covent Garden Opera House to hear "La Traviata." The well-worn work did
not grasp the attention of a man who was genuinely fond of the music of
Richard Strauss, with its almost miraculous intricacies, and who was
willingly captive to Debussy. He looked about the house from his stall,
and very soon caught sight of Lady Mansford, Lady Sophia's sister-in-law,
in a box on the Grand Tier. Malling knew Lady Mansford. He resolved to
pay her a visit, and as soon as the curtain was down, and Tetrazzini had
tripped before it, smiling not unlike a good-natured child, he made his
way upstairs, and asked the attendant to tap at a door on which was
printed, "The Earl of Mansford." The man did so, and opened the door,
showing a domestic scene highly creditable to the much maligned British
aristocracy--Lord Mansford seated alone with his wife, in evidently
amicable conversation.

After a few polite words he made Malling sit down beside her, and, saying
he would have a cigarette in the foyer, he left them together.

Lady Mansford was a pretty, dark woman, of the slightly irresponsible
and little-bird type. She willingly turned her