She wore a dress that seemed strange because it had not the fullness of the fashionable gowns. It appeared to cling to her figure and have almost a Grecian look.

Her skin was very white against the peacock-blue gauze with which the gown was made and her hair was like a raven’s wing.

She was beautiful, she was unique, and yet Lord Dorrington had to admit to himself that the love, or whatever emotion it was she had inspired in him for a short time, was no longer as vivid as it had been at first.

He could never bear his love affairs to peter away into boredom. Sometimes he felt that he was like a surgeon and must amputate a limb at the very first sign of decay.

Just for a moment he hesitated. Lady Cresswell’s unhappiness was very obvious. He knew her so well and he was sensitive to her every mood. He was aware that she was keeping an almost superhuman control upon herself.

He had only to take one step forward, hold out his arms and she would be close against his heart.

Her softness and warmth had meant so much to him.

He knew the intoxicating fragrance of the perfume she always used.

He knew the silky softness of her hair, the wonder of her skin.

But there was no going back. To do so would be to delude himself and her.

It was not love he was feeling for her, not even the infatuation that had drawn them together in the first place. He felt now only a compassion, a sympathy because he must hurt her.

As she had said herself, they, neither of them, would tolerate second best.

“Goodbye, Leoni,” Lord Dorrington said quietly.

Then he turned and walked from the salon.

He had passed down the stairs and climbed into his phaeton and was driving away down the drive before Lady Cresswell moved.

Then she put her hands up to her face and the tears, bitter and agonising, came slowly into her eyes.

*

Lord Dorrington drove back to Mayfair.

His interview with Lady Cresswell had left him feeling curiously depleted emotionally and at the same time aggressive.

When he reached the Pugilist Club in Bond Street, he asked Mendoza if he would spar with him.

It was an hour later, when Mendoza had been pushed to keep his end up, that Lord Dorrington acknowledged he had had enough.

“I have never seen you so ferocious,” Lord Alvanley said, who had been watching the bout from the side of the room.

“You’re improving, my Lord,” Gentleman Jackson smiled. “I’ll soon have to try to find someone stronger than Daniel to stand up to you.”

Lord Dorrington laughed.

“You should make His Royal Highness lose a little of his fat,” he said. “It would do him good.”

“Exactly what I says myself,” Gentleman Jackson agreed. “There are too many big meals and too much wine at Carlton House.”