Chapter II

That evening, when Sir Hugh Maine came back to his rooms in Jermyn Street after dining out, he found a large man sprawling in one of his saddle-back chairs, puffing vigorously at a pipe that looked worn with long and faithful service. The man took the pipe out of his mouth and sprang up.

"Hullo, Maine!" he cried. "D'you recognise the tobacco and me?"

Hugh grasped his hand warmly. "Rather," he said. "Neither is changed. At least--h'm--I think you both seem a bit stronger even than usual. Who would have thought of seeing you, Manning? I did not know you were in Europe."

"I came from Asia. I thought I should like to hear Melba before the end of the season. And it was getting sultry out there. So here I am."

"And were those your only reasons?"

"Give me a brandy-and-soda," said the other.

Maine did as he was bid, lit a cigar, and sat down, stretching out his long legs. The other man took a pull at his glass, and spoke again.

"I am very fond of music," he said; "and Melba sings very well."

"Ah!"

"Look here, Maine," Manning broke out suddenly, "you are right--I had another reason. Kipling says that those who have heard the East a-calling never heed any other voice. He's wrong though. The West has been calling me, or, at least, a voice in the West, and I have resisted it for a deuce of a time. But at last it became imperative."

"A woman's voice, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Tell me what is its _timbre_, if you care to."

"I will. You're an old friend, and I can talk to you. But you tell me one thing first: Is a man really a fool to marry a woman with a past?"

"You are going to?"

"I have tried not to. I have been trying not to for three years. Listen! When I was travelling in Japan I met her. She was with an American called Glinn."

"What?"

"You knew him?"

"No! It's all right. I was surprised, because at the moment I was thinking of that very name."

"Oh! Well, she passed as Mrs Glinn; but, somehow, it got out that she was something else. The usual story, you know. People fought shy of her; but I don't think she cared much. Glinn was devoted to her, and she loved him, and was as true to him as any wife could have been. Then the tragedy came."

"What was it?"

"Glinn died suddenly in Tokio, of typhoid. She nursed him to the end. And when the end came her situation was awful, so lonely and deserted. There wasn't a woman in the hotel who would be her friend; so I tried to come to the rescue, arranged her affairs, saw about the funeral, and did what I could. She was well off; Glinn left her nearly all his money. He would have married her, only he had a wife alive somewhere."

"And you fell in love with her, of course?"

"That was the sort of thing. If you knew her you would not wonder at it. She was not a bad woman. Glinn had been the only one. She loved him too much; that was all. She came to Europe, and lived in Paris for a time, keeping the name of Mrs Glinn. I used to see her sometimes, but I never said anything. You see, there was her past. In fact, I have been fighting against her for three years. I went to India to get cured; but it was no good. And now, here I am."

"And she is in Paris?"

"No, in London at present; but I didn't know her address till to-day. I think she had her doubts of me, and meant to give me the slip."

"How did you find it out?"

"Quite by chance. I was walking in Mill Street, Knightsbridge, and saw her pass in a victoria."

Maine got up suddenly, and went over to the spirit-stand. "In Mill Street?" he said.

"Yes. The carriage stopped at No. 100. She went in. A footman came out and carried in her rug. _Ergo_, she lives there."

"How hot it is!" said Maine in a hard voice. He threw up one of the windows and leaned out. He felt as if he were choking. A little way down the street a half-tipsy guardsman was reeling along, singing his own private version of "Tommy Atkins." He narrowly avoided a lamp-post by an abrupt lurch which took him into the gutter. Maine heard some one laugh. It was himself.

"Well, old chap," said Manning, who had come up behind him, "what would you advise me to do? I'm in a fix. I'm in love with Eve--that's her name; I can't live without her happily, and yet I hate to marry a woman with a--well, you know how it is."

Maine drew himself back into the room and faced round. "Does she love you?" he asked; and there was a curious change in his manner towards his friend.

"I don't know that she does," Manning said, rather uncomfortably. "But that would come right. She would marry me, naturally."

"Why?"

"Well, I mean the position. Lady Herbert Manning could go where Mrs Glinn could not, and all that sort of thing."

"The only question is whether you can bring yourself to ask her?"

"My dear chap, you don't put it too pleasantly."

"It's the fact, though."

Lord Herbert hesitated. Then he said dubiously, "I suppose so."

Maine lit another cigar and sat down again. His face was very white. "You're rather conventional, Manning," he said presently.

"Conventional! Why?"

"You think her--this Mrs Glinn--a good woman. Isn't that enough for you?"

"But, besides Eve and myself, there is a third person in the situation."

"How on earth did you find out that?" exclaimed Maine.

The other looked surprised. "How did I find out? I don't understand you."

Maine recollected himself. He had made the common mistake of fancying another might know a thing because he knew it.

"Who is this third person?" he asked.

"Society."

"Ah! I said you were conventional."

"Every sensible man and woman is."

"I don't know that I agree. But the third person does certainly complicate the situation. What are you going to do then?"

Lord Herbert put down his pipe. It was not smoked out. "That's what I want to know," he answered.

"Of course, there's the one way--of being unconventional. Then, there's the way of being conventional but unhappy. Is there any alternative?"

Lord Herbert hesitated obviously, but at length he said: "There is, of course; but Mrs Glinn is a curious sort of woman. I don't quite know--"

He paused, looking at his friend. Maine's face was drawn and fierce.

"What's the row?" Lord Herbert asked.

"Nothing; only I shouldn't advise you to try the alternative. That's all."

"Maine, what do you mean?"

"Just this," replied the other. "That I know Mrs Glinn, that I agree with you about her character--"

"You know her? That's odd!"

"I have known her for a year."

They looked each other in the eyes while a minute passed. Then Lord Herbert said slowly, "I understand."

"What?"

"That I have come to the wrong man for advice."

There was a silence, broken only by the ticking of a clock and the uneasy movements of Maine's fox-terrier, which was lying before the empty grate and dreaming of departed fires.

At last Maine said: "To-day I asked Mrs Glinn to marry me."

The other started perceptibly. "Knowing what I have told you?" he asked.

"Not knowing it."

"What--what did she say?"

"Nothing. I am to see her to-morrow."

Lord Herbert glanced at him furtively. "I suppose you will not go--now?" he said.

"Yes, Manning, I shall," Maine answered.

"Well," the other man continued, looking at his watch and yawning, "I must be going. It's late. Glad to have seen you, Maine. I am to be found at 80 St James's Place. Thanks; yes I will have my coat on. My pipe--oh! here it is. Good-night."

The door closed, and Maine was left alone.

"Will she tell me to-morrow, or will she be silent?" he said to himself. "That depends on one thing: Has love of truth the largest half of her heart, or love of me?"

He sighed--at the conventionality of the world, perhaps.