Mark was delighted with its reception. Now, that he had brought forth his child, he seemed more light-hearted, gay and boyish than ever. His too vivid imagination had been toiling. It rested now. Catherine and he came up to town for the winter. They meant to spend only their summers in Surrey. They took a house in Chester Street, and often dined with the Ardaghs in Eaton Square. At one of these dinners Jenny Levita was present. Mark, remembering what Catherine had told him about her in Surrey, looked at her with some interest, and talked to her a little in his most light-hearted way. She replied briefly and without much apparent animation, seeming indeed rather absent-minded and distraite. Presently Mr. Ardagh said,
"This new man, William Foster, is that very rare thing in England—a pitiless artist. He has the audacity of genius and the fine impersonality."
Catherine started and flushed violently. As she did so she saw Jenny's long dark eyes fixed earnestly upon her. Mark smiled slightly. Mrs. Ardagh looked pained.
"His book is doing frightful harm, I am sure," she said.
"Nonsense, my dear," said her husband. "Nothing so absolutely right, so absolutely artistic, can do harm."
An obstinate expression came into Mrs. Ardagh's face, but she said nothing. Catherine looked down at her plate. She felt as if small needles were pricking her all over.
"Have you read the book?" said Mr. Ardagh to his wife.
"Yes," she replied. "It was recommended to me, I began it not knowing what sort of book it was."
"And did you finish it?" asked her husband, with rather a satirical smile.
"Yes. I confess I could not leave off reading it. That is why it is so dangerous. It is both powerful and evil."