And he saw other things too in her manner: saw how it had adjusted itself to the hidden intricacies of a situation in which, even after Mrs. Fisher’s elucidating flashes, he still felt himself agrope. Surely Mrs. Fisher could no longer charge Miss Bart with neglecting her opportunities! To Selden’s exasperated observation she was only too completely alive to them. She was “perfect” to every one: subservient to Bertha’s anxious predominance, good-naturedly watchful of Dorset’s moods, brightly companionable to Silverton and Dacey, the latter of whom met her on an evident footing of old admiration, while young Silverton, portentously self-absorbed, seemed conscious of her only as of something vaguely obstructive. And suddenly, as Selden noted the fine shades of manner by which she harmonized herself with her surroundings, it flashed on him that to need such adroit handling, the situation must indeed be desperate. She was on the edge of something—that was the impression left with him. He seemed to see her poised on the brink of a chasm, with one graceful foot advanced to assert her unconsciousness that the ground was failing her.

  On the Promenade des Anglais, where Ned Silverton hung on him for the half-hour before dinner, he received a deeper impression of the general insecurity. Silverton was in a mood of titanic pessimism. How any one could come to such a damned hole as the Riviera—any one with a grain of imagination—with the whole Mediterranean to choose from; but then, if one’s estimate of a place depended on the way they broiled a spring chicken! Gad! What a study might be made of the tyranny of the stomach—the way a sluggish liver or insufficient gastric juices might affect the whole course of the universe, overshadow everything in reach—chronic dyspepsia ought to be among the “statutory causes”; a woman’s life might be ruined by a man’s inability to digest fresh bread. Grotesque? Yes—and tragic—like most absurdities. There’s nothing grimmer than the tragedy that wears a comic mask. Where was he? Oh—the reason they chucked Sicily and rushed back? Well—partly, no doubt, Miss Bart’s desire to get back to bridge and smartness. Dead as a stone to art and poetry—the light never was on sea or land for her! And of course she persuaded Dorset that the Italian food was bad for him. Oh, she could make him believe anything—anything! Mrs. Dorset was aware of it—oh, perfectly; nothing she didn’t see! But she could hold her tongue—she’d had to, often enough. Miss Bart was an intimate friend; she wouldn’t hear a word against her. Only it hurts a woman’s pride; there are some things one doesn’t get used to. All this in confidence, of course? Ah—and there were the ladies signalling from the balcony of the hotel. He plunged across the promenade, leaving Selden to a meditative cigar.

  The conclusions it led him to were fortified, later in the evening, by some of those faint corroborative hints that generate a light of their own in the dusk of a doubting mind. Selden, stumbling on a chance acquaintance, had dined with him, and adjourned, still in his company, to the brightly lit promenade, where a line of crowded stands commanded the glittering darkness of the waters. The night was soft and persuasive. Overhead hung a summer sky furrowed with the rush of rockets; and from the east a late moon, pushing up beyond the lofty bend of the coast, sent across the bay a shaft of brightness which paled to ashes in the red glitter of the illuminated boats. Down the lantern-hung promenade, snatches of band-music floated above the hum of the crowd and the soft tossing of boughs in dusky gardens; and between these gardens and the backs of the stands there flowed a stream of people in whom the vociferous carnival mood seemed tempered by the growing languor of the season.

  Selden and his companion, unable to get seats on one of the stands facing the bay, had wandered for a while with the throng, and then found a point of vantage on a high garden-parapet above the promenade. Thence they caught but a triangular glimpse of the water and of the flashing play of boats across its surface; but the crowd in the street was under their immediate view and seemed to Selden, on the whole, of more interest than the show itself. After a while, however, he wearied of his perch, and dropping alone to the pavement, pushed his way to the first corner and turned into the moonlit silence of a side-street. Long garden-walls overhung by trees made a dark boundary to the pavement; an empty cab trailed along the deserted thoroughfare, and presently Selden saw two persons emerge from the opposite shadows, signal to the cab, and drive off in it toward the centre of the town. The moonlight touched them as they paused to enter the carriage, and he recognized Mrs. Dorset and young Silverton.

  Beneath the nearest lamp-post he glanced at his watch and saw that the time was close on eleven. He took another cross-street, and without breasting the throng on the promenade, made his way to the fashionable club which overlooks that thoroughfare. Here, amid the blaze of crowded baccarat tables, he caught sight of Lord Hubert Dacey, seated with his habitual worn smile behind a rapidly dwindling heap of gold. The heap being in due course wiped out, Lord Hubert rose with a shrug, and joining Selden, adjourned with him to the deserted terrace of the club. It was now past midnight, and the throng on the stands was dispersing, while the long trails of red-lit boats scattered and faded beneath a sky repossessed by the tranquil splendour of the moon.

  Lord Hubert looked at his watch. “By Jove, I promised to join the Duchess for supper at the London House; but it’s past twelve, and I suppose they’ve all scattered. The fact is, I lost them in the crowd soon after dinner and took refuge here for my sins. They had seats on one of the stands, but of course they couldn’t stop quiet; the Duchess never can. She and Miss Bart went off in quest of what they call adventures—gad, it ain’t their fault if they don’t have some queer ones!” He added tentatively, after pausing to grope for a cigarette: “Miss Bart’s an old friend of yours, I believe? So she told me. Ah, thanks, I don’t seem to have one left.” He lit Selden’s proffered cigarette and continued in his high-pitched, drawling tone: “None of my business, of course, but I didn’t introduce her to the Duchess. Charming woman, the Duchess, you understand, and a very good friend of mine, but rather a liberal education.”

  Selden received this in silence, and after a few puffs Lord Hubert broke out again: “Sort of thing one can’t communicate to the young lady, though young ladies now-a-days are so competent to judge for themselves; but in this case—I’m an old friend too, you know—and there seemed no one else to speak to. The whole situation’s a little mixed, as I see it; but there used to be an aunt somewhere, a diffuse and innocent person, who was great at bridging over chasms she didn’t see. Ah, in New York, is she? Pity New York’s such a long way off!”

  II

  Miss Bart, emerging late the next morning from her cabin, found herself alone on the deck of the Sabrina.

  The cushioned chairs, disposed expectantly under the wide awning, showed no signs of recent occupancy, and she presently learned from a steward that Mrs. Dorset had not yet appeared and that the gentlemen—separately—had gone ashore as soon as they had breakfasted. Supplied with these facts, Lily leaned awhile over the side, giving herself up to a leisurely enjoyment of the spectacle before her. Unclouded sunlight enveloped sea and shore in a bath of purest radiancy. The purpling waters drew a sharp white line of foam at the base of the shore; against its irregular eminences, hotels and villas flashed from the greyish verdure of olive and eucalyptus; and the background of bare and finely pencilled mountains quivered in a pale intensity of light.

  How beautiful it was—and how she loved beauty! She had always felt that her sensibility in this direction made up for certain obtusenesses of feeling of which she was less proud, and during the last three months she had indulged it passionately. The Dorsets’ invitation to go abroad with them had come as an almost miraculous release from crushing difficulties, and her faculty for renewing herself in new scenes and casting off problems of conduct as easily as the surroundings in which they had arisen made the mere change from one place to another seem not merely a postponement, but a solution, of her troubles. Moral complications existed for her only in the environment that had produced them; she did not mean to slight or ignore them, but they lost their reality when they changed their background. She could not have remained in New York without repaying the money she owed to Trenor; to acquit herself of that odious debt she might even have faced a marriage with Rosedale; but the accident of placing the Atlantic between herself and her obligations made them dwindle out of sight as if they had been milestones and she had travelled past them.

  Her two months on the Sabrina had been especially calculated to aid this illusion of distance. She had been plunged into new scenes, and had found in them a renewal of old hopes and ambitions. The cruise itself charmed her as a romantic adventure. She was vaguely touched by the names and scenes amid which she moved, and had listened to Ned Silverton reading Theocritus by moonlight as the yacht rounded the Sicilian promontories with a thrill of the nerves that confirmed her belief in her intellectual superiority. But the weeks at Cannes and Nice had really given her more pleasure. The gratification of being welcomed in high company and of making her own ascendency felt there so that she found herself figuring once more as the “beautiful Miss Bart” in the interesting journal devoted to recording the least movements of her cosmopolitan companions—all these experiences tended to throw into the extreme background of memory the prosaic and sordid difficulties from which she had escaped.

  If she was faintly aware of fresh difficulties ahead, she was sure of her ability to meet them; it was characteristic of her to feel that the only problems she could not solve were those with which she was familiar. Meanwhile, she could honestly be proud of the skill with which she had adapted herself to somewhat delicate conditions. She had reason to think that she had made herself equally necessary to her host and hostess; and if only she had seen any perfectly irreproachable means of drawing a financial profit from the situation, there would have been no cloud on her horizon. The truth was that her funds, as usual, were inconveniently low; and to neither Dorset nor his wife could this vulgar embarrassment be safely hinted. Still, the need was not a pressing one; she could worry along, as she had so often done before, with the hope of some happy change of fortune to sustain her; and meanwhile life was gay and beautiful and easy, and she was conscious of figuring not unworthily in such a setting.

  She was engaged to breakfast that morning with the Duchess of Beltshire, and at twelve o’clock she asked to be set ashore in the gig. Before this she had sent her maid to inquire if she might see Mrs. Dorset, but the reply came back that the latter was tired and trying to sleep. Lily thought she understood the reason of the rebuff. Her hostess had not been included in the Duchess’ invitation, though she herself had made the most loyal efforts in that direction. But her grace was impervious to hints and invited or omitted as she chose. It was not Lily’s fault if Mrs. Dorset’s complicated attitudes did not fall in with the Duchess’ easy gait. The Duchess, who seldom explained herself, had not formulated her objection beyond saying: “She’s rather a bore, you know. The only one of your friends I like is that little Mr. Bry—he’s funny—” but Lily knew enough not to press the point, and was not altogether sorry to be thus distinguished at her friend’s expense. Bertha certainly had grown tiresome since she had taken to poetry and Ned Silverton.

  On the whole, it was a relief to break away now and then from the Sabrina; and the Duchess’ little breakfast, organized by Lord Hubert with all his usual virtuosity, was the pleasanter to Lily for not including her travelling-companions. Dorset, of late, had grown more than usually morose and incalculable, and Ned Silverton went about with an air that seemed to challenge the universe. The freedom and lightness of the ducal intercourse made an agreeable change from these complications, and Lily was tempted after luncheon to adjourn in the wake of her companions to the hectic atmosphere of the Casino. She did not mean to play; her diminished pocket-money offered small scope for the adventure; but it amused her to sit on a divan under the doubtful protection of the Duchess’ back while the latter hung above her stakes at a neighbouring table.

  The rooms were packed with the gazing throng which in the afternoon hours trickles heavily between the tables, like the Sunday crowd in a lion-house. In the stagnant flow of the mass, identities were hardly distinguishable; but Lily presently saw Mrs. Bry cleaving her determined way through the doors, and in the broad wake she left, the light figure of Mrs. Fisher bobbing after her like a row-boat at the stern of a tug. Mrs. Bry pressed on, evidently animated by the resolve to reach a certain point in the rooms; but Mrs. Fisher, as she passed Lily, broke from her towing-line and let herself float to the girl’s side.

  “Lose her?” she echoed the latter’s query, with an indifferent glance at Mrs. Bry’s retreating back. “I daresay—it doesn’t matter: I have lost her already.” And, as Lily exclaimed, she added: “We had an awful row this morning. You know, of course, that the Duchess chucked her at dinner last night, and she thinks it was my fault—my want of management. The worst of it is, the message—just a mere word by telephone—came so late that the dinner had to be paid for; and Bécassin had run it up—it had been so drummed into him that the Duchess was coming!” Mrs. Fisher indulged in a faint laugh at the remembrance. “Paying for what she doesn’t get rankles so dreadfully with Louisa; I can’t make her see that it’s one of the preliminary steps to getting what you haven’t paid for—and as I was the nearest thing to smash, she smashed me to atoms, poor dear!”

  Lily murmured her commiseration. Impulses of sympathy came naturally to her, and it was instinctive to proffer her help to Mrs. Fisher.

  “If there’s anything I can do—if it’s only a question of meeting the Duchess! I heard her say she thought Mr. Bry amusing—”

  But Mrs. Fisher interposed with a decisive gesture. “My dear, I have my pride: the pride of my trade. I couldn’t manage the Duchess, and I can’t palm off your arts on Louisa Bry as mine. I’ve taken the final step: I go to Paris tonight with the Sam Gormers. They’re still in the elementary stage; an Italian prince is a great deal more than a prince to them, and they’re always on the brink of taking a courier for one. To save them from that is my present mission.” She laughed again at the picture. “But before I go I want to make my last will and testament—I want to leave you the Brys.”

  “Me?” Miss Bart joined in her amusement. “It’s charming of you to remember me, dear; but really—”

  “You’re already so well provided for?” Mrs. Fisher flashed a sharp glance at her. “Are you, though, Lily—to the point of rejecting my offer?”

  Miss Bart coloured slowly. “What I really meant was, that the Brys wouldn’t in the least care to be so disposed of.”

  Mrs. Fisher continued to probe her embarrassment with an unflinching eye. “What you really meant was that you’ve snubbed the Brys horribly; and you know that they know it—”

  “Carry!”

  “Oh, on certain sides Louisa bristles with perceptions. If you’d even managed to have them asked once on the Sabrina—especially when royalties were coming! But it’s not too late,” she ended earnestly; “it’s not too late for either of you.”

  Lily smiled. “Stay over, and I’ll get the Duchess to dine with them.”

  “I shan’t stay over—the Gormers have paid for my salon-lit,” said Mrs. Fisher with simplicity. “But get the Duchess to dine with them all the same.”

  Lily’s smile again flowed into a slight laugh; her friend’s importunity was beginning to strike her as irrelevant. “I’m sorry I have been negligent about the Brys—” she began.

  “Oh, as to the Brys—it’s you I’m thinking of,” said Mrs. Fisher abruptly. She paused, and then, bending forward, with a lowered voice: “You know we all went on to Nice last night when the Duchess chucked us. It was Louisa’s idea; I told her what I thought of it.”

  Miss Bart assented. “Yes, I caught sight of you on the way back, at the station.”

  “Well, the man who was in the carriage with you and George Dorset—that horrid little Dabham who does ‘Society Notes from the Riviera’—had been dining with us at Nice. And he’s telling everybody that you and Dorset came back alone after midnight.”

  “Alone? When he was with us?” Lily laughed, but her laugh faded into gravity under the prolonged implication of Mrs. Fisher’s look. “We did come back alone—if that’s so very dreadful! But whose fault was it? The Duchess was spending the night at Cimiez with the Crown Princess; Bertha got bored with the show and went off early, promising to meet us at the station. We turned up on time, but she didn’t—she didn’t turn up at all!”

  Miss Bart made this announcement in the tone of one who presents, with careless assurance, a complete vindication; but Mrs. Fisher received it in a manner almost inconsequent. She seemed to have lost sight of her friend’s part in the incident; her inward vision had taken another slant.

  “Bertha never turned up at all? Then how on earth did she get back?”

  “Oh, by the next train, I suppose; there were two extra ones for the fête. At any rate, I know she’s safe on the yacht, though I haven’t yet seen her; but you see, it was not my fault,” Lily summed up.

  “Not your fault that Bertha didn’t turn up? My poor child, if only you don’t have to pay for it!” Mrs. Fisher rose—she had seen Mrs. Bry surging back in her direction. “There’s Louisa, and I must be off—oh, we’re on the best of terms externally; we’re lunching together; but at heart it’s me she’s lunching on,” she explained; and with a last hand-clasp and a last look, she added: “Remember, I leave her to you; she’s hovering now, ready to take you in.”

  Lily carried the impression of Mrs. Fisher’s leave-taking away with her from the Casino doors. She had accomplished, before leaving, the first step toward her reinstatement in Mrs. Bry’s good graces. An affable advance—a vague murmur that they must see more of each other—an allusive glance to a near future that was felt to include the Duchess as well as the Sabrina—how easily it was all done if one possessed the knack of doing it! She wondered at herself, as she had so often wondered, that, possessing the knack, she did not more consistently exercise it. But sometimes she was forgetful; and sometimes, could it be that she was proud? To-day, at any rate, she had been vaguely conscious of a reason for sinking her pride, had in fact even sunk it to the point of suggesting to Lord Hubert Dacey, whom she ran across on the Casino steps, that he might really get the Duchess to dine with the Brys if she undertook to have them asked on the Sabrina. Lord Hubert had promised his help with the readiness on which she could always count: it was his only way of ever reminding her that he had once been ready to do so much more for her. Her path, in short, seemed to smooth itself before her as she advanced; yet the faint stir of uneasiness persisted. Had it been produced, she wondered, by her chance meeting with Selden? She thought not—time and change seemed so completely to have relegated him to his proper distance. The sudden and exquisite reaction from her anxieties had had the effect of throwing the recent past so far back that even Selden, as part of it, retained a certain air of unreality. And he had made it so clear that they were not to meet again, that he had merely dropped down to Nice for a day or two and had almost his foot on the next steamer. No, that part of the past had merely surged up for a moment on the fleeing surface of events; and now that it was submerged again, the uncertainty, the apprehension, persisted.