It was not until the end of July that Mary saw him again. She heard nothing of him. She only knew that he had left London. He came in one evening late, and Mary's aunt discreetly disappeared after a few minutes' desultory conversation.
He looked worn and aged, but he spoke calmly, and this time he noticed Mary's existence. "You look pulled down," he said kindly. "Has the season been too much for you?"
"It is not that," she said. "I have been distressed because an old friend of mine is in trouble."
He looked at her and saw that she had suffered. A great compunction seized him. He took her hand and kissed it.
"You are the best woman in the world," he said. "Don't worry your kind heart about me. I'm not worth it." Then he moved restlessly away from her, and began turning over the knick-knacks on the silver table.
"Bethune has been tackled," he said suddenly. "The Duke of —— did it, and he has promised to marry her—if—if——"
"If what?"
"If his wife will divorce him. The Duke has got his promise in black and white."
"I don't think Lady Francis will divorce him."