firmly, in a voice which
nevertheless throbbed.

It was Lady Sophia Entwistle.

"How do you do?" he said, taking her offered hand.

There was nothing else to do, and nothing else to say.

Then Mr. Oxford put out his hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Farll?"

And, taking Mr. Oxford's hated hand, Priam said again, "How do you do?"

It was all just as if there had been no past; the past seemed to have
been swallowed up in the ordinariness of the crowded corridor. By all
the rules for the guidance of human conduct, Lady Sophia ought to have
denounced Priam with outstretched dramatic finger to the contempt of the
world as a philanderer with the hearts of trusting women; and he ought
to have kicked Mr. Oxford along the corridor for a scheming Hebrew. But
they merely shook hands and asked each other how they did, not even
expecting an answer. This shows to what extent the ancient qualities of
the race have deteriorated.

Then a silence.

"I suppose you know, Mr. Farll," said Lady Sophia, rather suddenly,
"that I have got to give evidence in this case."

"No," he said, "I didn't."

"Yes, it seems they have scoured all over the Continent in vain to find
people who knew you under your proper name, and who could identify you
with certainty, and they couldn't find one--doubtless owing to your
peculiar habits of travel."

"Really," said Priam.

He had made love to this woman. He had kissed her. They had promised to
marry each other. It was a piece of wild folly on his part; but, in the
eyes of an impartial person, folly could not excuse his desertion of
her, his flight from her intellectual charms. His gaze pierced her veil.
No, she was not quite so old as Alice. She was not more plain than
Alice. She certainly knew more than Alice. She could talk about pictures
without sticking a knife into his soul and turning it in the wound. She
was better dressed than Alice. And her behaviour on the present
occasion, candid, kind, correct, could not have been surpassed by Alice.
And yet... Her demeanour was without question prodigiously splendid in
its ignoring of all that she had gone through. And yet... Even in that
moment of complicated misery he had enough strength to hate her because
he had been fool enough to make love to her. No excuse whatever for him,
of course!

"I was in India when I first heard of this case," Lady Sophia continued.
"At first I thought it must be a sort of Tichborne business over again.
Then, knowing you