He opened the door and went in, shutting it behind him. He stood looking at his wife, and at Mathew, bending over her.

The air was heavy with some sickly perfume, the room over-furnished and almost voluptuous. Sophia sat on a cushioned couch by the fire, richly dressed in bright-hued silks, cut low across her thin chest. She was not yet thirty, but only traces of the beauty that had been hers remained.

Her cheeks were raddled by the paint she laid on them, her eyes were haggard and restless, tired as his own were from endless gaieties and uncontrolled emotions. She saw him, and cried out, paling beneath her rouge.

“La! You startled me, I vow! Indeed, and what brings you to my room thus unexpectedly? I should be honoured, I suppose!” Her voice was nervous, high-pitched and jangling.

Young Hatton sprang up, defiant.

“My lord, I—”

Farquhar held up one hand, silencing him. Emeralds glittered on it, and diamonds. He walked forward, pressing his handkerchief to his lips. His hand was very steady. He began to speak in his sweet, deliberate voice. My lady was conscious once again of his wonderful fascination. She caught her breath, listening.

“There was once a man, Mr. Hatton, who desired always to act well in the eyes of the world. Alack, he was but a frail creature, and it seems at every turn he failed. He married a lady”—his eyes flickered to Sophia’s face—“very beautiful, very charming. He loved her, Mr. Hatton, but in some way or other things went awry between them. There was another man—a boy—too young for such pastimes.”

“My lord—”

“Ah, hush!... The husband came home one day, and found this man—with his wife.” Again, Farquhar touched his lips with the handkerchief. Sophia was watching him closely, leaning forward, eyes gleaming, a red spot on either cheekbone. “I have said, Mr. Hatton, that he desired always to do that which was best.”

Sophia spoke, her unmusical voice contrasting strangely with his.

“And the end of the story, my lord? The end?”

“Was between the husband, my dear, and his wife.”

She flushed deeper, glancing from one to the other of the two men.

“I don’t understand the meaning of this rigmarole,” cried Hatton. “What part does the other man play—in the end?”

My lord withdrew his gaze from my lady’s face. His eyes rested on the younger man’s face almost compassionately.

“None, Mr. Hatton. Between that husband and his wife that other man was, you see, nothing.”

“That, my lord, is for Sophia to say! Not you!”

“A man and his wife are one,” replied Farquhar gently. “But let her speak, if you wish it.”

Mathew flung round to my lady’s side. She put up her hand, warding him off, she was looking at her husband, uncertain yet, but suppressedly eager.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Henry. This new attitude sits strangely on your shoulders, after these years of neglect.”

“It is as I said, my dear. I have desired to act well by you. But somehow things have gone awry. You know best how far I am to blame. I desire now to set things right between us.”