"Grayle," I said, "you must admit you've been a pitiful, heartless cad
over this."
"You don't want to meet me?" he repeated. "I only want to be sure of my
ground."
"You remembered, of course, that O'Rane was blind?" I went on.
He dropped the menace and assumed an expression of mild perplexity.
"I'm afraid I don't follow where you come in in all this," he said,
running his fingers through his luxuriant flaxen hair. "I'm quite ready
to meet O'Rane here or--elsewhere. If he _likes_ to plead blindness as
an excuse, he can."
"And you will only plead it as an opportunity," I said. "Frankly,
Grayle, I never want to see you or hear of you or speak to you again.
And I wish I could find someone less fat and flabby to horsewhip you."
So a forty years' acquaintance ended. We spoke as and when we found
ourselves members of the same company, but I was only to meet him once
again in private and only to hold private communication with him twice.
Perhaps I was too busy to frequent the places where I was likely to see
him; perhaps, and more probably, he was living in comparative
retirement.
During October and November I was constrained to watch the fulfilment of
Bertrand's prophecy. The fact that Mrs. O'Rane was living apart from her
husband, if not the fact that she was living with someone else, could
not be concealed indefinitely. I had entered their social group so
recently that I could not count more than half a dozen or a dozen
friends in common, but in the course of those two months I heard many
references that indicated suspicion or at least curiosity. Lady
Maitland, I remember, shook her massive head and told me that it was a
great pity for Colonel Grayle and Mrs. O'Rane to be still going about
together so much; she had hoped that all that nonsense was over.... Lady
Pentyre had heard that there was some estrangement.... And one night,
when I was dining at Bodmin Lodge, young Deganway, who prided himself on
the range of his social information, peered knowingly through his
eyeglass and asked our host whether the famous Mrs. O'Rane did not hail
from his part of the country. I forget what answer Pebbleridge made, but
Deganway started talking with fine mystery about a certain member of
Parliament who should be nameless.... George Oakleigh interrupted him by
asking if he knew her.
"I _do_," he added significantly.
"Well, but is it true?" Deganway demanded resiliency.
"I haven't heard the story yet," George answered. "I don't know that I
particularly want to."
His tone was not sufficiently discouraging to closure the discussion,
and Pebbleridge observed that he had not heard the story either. I felt
that it was time to intervene.
"I've heard _a_ story," I said. "If Deganway and I mean the same thing,
there's nothing in it. She used to be rather a friend of yours, usen't
she, Deganway?"
"Oh, I've known her for years," he answered imperviously and
impenitently.
George and I walked part of the way home together along Knightsbridge.
"It can't go on, you know," he exclaimed. "We had a frontal attack from
Lady Dainton to-day. She called at 'The Sanctuary' on her way to
Waterloo and was mildly surprised to find me in possession and very
fairly staggered when I said Sonia was away and that I didn't know her
address. Between us we managed to shut Deganway up to-night, but the
story's being circulated by other people as well. I deny it, of
course.... And I've seen Sonia with him three times in ten days."