He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. "It's Mrs. Earles,” she exclaimed. He brought his mother to call, and as you know the Countess goes scarcely anywhere. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. Remember what the conjuror said. Satisfied that he had solved his difficulty, he proceeded to his room. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. He only laughed his defiance.
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