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The house emptied at last, and Matravers made his way behind, where many of Fergusson's friends had gathered together, and where congratulations were the order of the day. A species of informal reception was going on, champagne cup and sandwiches were being handed around and a general air of extreme good humour pervaded the place.
Ellison laughed shortly. He had an immense admiration for Matravers, but just at present he was a little out of temper with him. "You admit her talent, then?" he remarked. "I am glad of that!" "I am not sure," Matravers said, "that talent is the proper word to use. One might almost call it genius." Ellison was considerably mollified. "I am glad to hear you say so," he declared.
Their critic was ill Matravers, who had at first laughed at the idea, had consented after much pressure to take his place.
Yet, before they left, both Fergusson and his companion began to understand Matravers' confidence in her. There was something almost magnetically attractive about her personality. The luncheon was very much what one who knew him would have expected from Matravers simple, yet served with exceeding elegance.
He had watched her come out, and was gazing now fixedly at the window of her brougham. Matravers knew in a moment that this was the man whom he had seen sitting alone in the amphitheatre; and almost without any definite idea as to his purpose, he crossed the street towards him.
For ever in the eyes of all these people she was doomed to become one of the Magdalens of the world. It seemed a very unreal London through which Matravers was whirled on his way from the club to Paddington. But before a third of the distance was accomplished, there was a sudden check.
Matravers knew after that night that his was a broken life. Any future such as he had planned for himself of active, intellectual toil had now, he felt, become impossible. His ideals were all broken down. A woman had found her way in between the joints of an armour which he had grown to believe impenetrable, and henceforth life was a wreck.
The address is Bossington Old Manor House, Devonshire, and the station is Minehead. Wire what train you are coming by, and I will send something to meet you. Matravers walked back to his rooms and ordered his portmanteau to be packed. Then he went out, and after making all his arrangements for an absence from town, bought a Bradshaw.
If you really wish to afford me a considerable happiness, you can do so." "Anything in this world!" John Drage declared vehemently. Matravers thought for a moment. The proposition which he was about to make had been in his mind from the first. The time had come now to put it into words. "You must not be offended at what I am going to say," he began gently.
"You may come with me," she said, "but our exit is like a rabbit burrow; we must go in single file, and almost on hands and knees." She led the way, and they followed her into the street. A small brougham was waiting at the door, and her maid was standing by it. The commissionaire stood away, and Matravers closed the carriage door upon them.
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