Eden, as we know, had become possessed of the idea that Merton would not tell the truth if a lie could serve his purpose equally well, and he did not therefore attach much importance to what he had heard. Nevertheless, it pleased him. Merton was evidently ashamed at having a shop-girl received as an equal by his wife, and would be glad, like the bewigged and evil-tempered old woman he had spoken of, to cast her off. “His house!” thought Eden contemptuously; “a couple of wretched rooms in the shabby neighbourhood of Norland Square.”
“Well,” he said, rising and looking at his watch, “it is greatly to be regretted that she did not follow your wife's advice, as there is no question that she is too good for her present station in life.”
Merton also rose; the fifty pounds were in his pocket (and his I O U in his friend's pocket), and there was nothing more to detain him.
“You seem to have been very much attracted by her,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you intend to cultivate her acquaintance.”
Eden smiled also, for his friend's eyes were on his face. “She is a charming girl, Chance, and—I met her at your house. Unless I meet her there on some future occasion, I do not suppose that I shall ever see her again. She has chosen her own path in life, and I only hope that she may not find it unpleasant.”
Then they shook hands and separated; Merton to attend to a little business matter, then to go home to his wife, with some new things to tell her. Eden's mental remark was, “I may see—I hope to see Miss Affleck again, not once, but scores and hundreds of times; but I shall not grieve much, my veracious and noble-minded friend, if I should never again run against you in Piccadilly or any other thoroughfare.”
From his visit to Eden, which, in different ways, had proved satisfactory to both gentlemen, Merton returned at six o'clock to dine with his wife, their usual midday meal having been put off until that hour to suit his convenience. He had brought a bottle of good wine with him; for with fifty pounds in his pocket he could afford to be free for once, and at table he made himself very entertaining.
“This has been a red-letter day,” he said, “and I shall finish it by being as lazy as I like to be. I shouldn't care to sit down now to work after such a good dinner. Rest and be thankful is my motto for the moment, and perhaps by-and-by you will treat me to some of your music. Eden has rather a taste for music, and admires your playing greatly.”
He was very lively, and chattered on in this strain until the wine was finished, and then Constance played and sung a few of his favourite pieces. But after the singing was over, and when she was doing a little needlework, she noticed that he had grown strangely silent, and sat staring into the fire with clouded face; and thinking that there was perhaps something on his mind which he might like to speak about, she put down her work and went to him.
“What is it, Merton, dear?” she said; “are there any dead flies in that little pot of apothecary's ointment you brought home to-day?”