to Mrs. Misquith and to Mrs. Jayne when you get home⁠—don’t forget that. Well, your wives may not⁠—like⁠—the lady I’m going to marry. Jayne Aubrey, forgive me for suggesting that the lady you are going to marry may not like our wives⁠—mine at least; I beg your pardon, Frank. Aubrey Quite so; then I must go the way my wife goes. Misquith Come, come, pray don’t let us anticipate that either side will be called upon to make such a sacrifice. Aubrey Yes, yes, let us anticipate it. And let us make up our minds to have no slow bleeding-to-death of our friendship. We’ll end a pleasant chapter here tonight, and after tonight start afresh. When my wife and I settle down at Willowmere it’s possible that we shall all come together. But if this isn’t to be, for Heaven’s sake let us recognise that it is simply because it can’t be, and not wear hypocritical faces and suffer and be wretched. Doctor, Frank⁠—Holding out his hands, one to Misquith, the other to Jayne⁠—good luck to all of us! Misquith But⁠—but⁠—do I understand we are to ask nothing? Not even the lady’s name, Aubrey? Aubrey The lady, my dear Frank, belongs to the next chapter, and in that her name is Mrs. Aubrey Tanqueray. Jayne Raising his coffee cup. Then, in an old-fashioned way, I propose a toast. Aubrey, Frank, I give you “The Next Chapter!” They drink the toast, saying, “The Next Chapter!” Aubrey Doctor, find a comfortable chair; Frank, you too. As we’re going to turn out by-and-by, let me scribble a couple of notes now while I think of them. Misquith and Jayne Certainly⁠—yes, yes. Aubrey It might slip my memory when I get back. Aubrey sits at a writing-table at the other end of the room, and writes. Jayne To Misquith, in a whisper. Frank⁠—Misquith quietly leaves his chair and sits nearer to Jayne. What is all this? Simply a morbid crank of Aubrey’s with regard to ante-nuptial acquaintances? Misquith H’m! Did you notice one expression he used? Jayne Let me think⁠— Misquith “My marriage is not even the conventional sort of marriage likely to satisfy society.” Jayne Bless me, yes! What does that suggest? Misquith That he has a particular rather than a general reason for anticipating estrangement from his friends, I’m afraid. Jayne A horrible mésalliance! A dairymaid who has given him a glass of milk during a day’s hunting, or a little anemic shopgirl! Frank, I’m utterly wretched! Misquith My dear Jayne, speaking in absolute confidence, I have never been more profoundly depressed in my life. Morse enters. Morse Announcing. Mr. Drummle. Cayley Drummle enters briskly. He is a neat little man of about five-and-forty, in manner bright, airy, debonair, but with an undercurrent of seriousness. Morse retires. Drummle I’m in disgrace; nobody realises that more thoroughly than I do. Where’s my host? Aubrey Who has risen. Cayley. Drummle Shaking hands with him. Don’t speak to me till I have tendered my explanation. A harsh word from anybody would unman me. Misquith and Jayne shake hands with Drummle. Aubrey Have you dined? Drummle No⁠—unless you call a bit of fish, a cutlet, and a pancake dining. Aubrey Cayley, this is disgraceful. Jayne Fish, a cutlet, and a pancake will require a great deal of explanation. Misquith Especially the pancake. My dear friend, your case looks miserably weak. Drummle Hear me! hear me! Jayne Now then! Misquith Come! Aubrey Well! Drummle It so happens that tonight I was exceptionally early in dressing for dinner. Misquith For which dinner⁠—the fish and cutlet? Drummle For this dinner, of course⁠—really, Frank! At a quarter to eight, in fact, I found myself trimming my nails, with ten minutes to spare. Just then enter my man with a note⁠—would I hasten, as fast as cab could carry me, to old Lady Orreyed in Bruton Street?⁠—“sad trouble.” Now, recollect, please, I had ten minutes on my hands, old Lady Orreyed was a very dear friend of my mother’s, and was in some distress. Aubrey Cayley, come to the fish and cutlet? Misquith and Jayne Yes, yes, and the pancake! Drummle Upon my word! Well, the scene in Bruton Street beggars description; the women servants looked scared, the men drunk; and there was poor old Lady Orreyed on the floor of her boudoir like Queen Bess among her pillows. Aubrey What’s the matter? Drummle To everybody. You know George Orreyed? Misquith Yes. Jayne I’ve met him. Drummle Well, he’s a thing of the past. Aubrey Not dead! Drummle Certainly, in the worst sense. He’s married Mabel Hervey. Misquith What! Drummle It’s true⁠—this morning. The poor mother showed me his letter⁠—a dozen curt words, and some of those ill-spelt. Misquith Walking up to the fireplace. I’m very sorry. Jayne Pardon my ignorance⁠—who was Mabel Hervey? Drummle You don’t⁠—? Oh, of course not. Miss Hervey⁠—Lady Orreyed, as she now is⁠—was a lady who would have been, perhaps has been, described in the reports of the Police or the Divorce Court as an actress. Had she belonged to a lower stratum of our advanced civilisation she would, in the event of judicial inquiry, have defined her calling with equal justification as that of a dressmaker. To do her justice, she is a type of a class which is immortal. Physically, by the strange caprice of creation, curiously beautiful; mentally, she lacks even the strength of deliberate viciousness. Paint her portrait, it would symbolise a creature perfectly patrician; lance a vein of her superbly-modelled arm, you would get the poorest vin ordinaire! Her affections, emotions, impulses, her very existence⁠—a burlesque! Flaxen, five-and-twenty, and feebly frolicsome; anybody’s, in less gentle society I should say everybody’s, property! That, doctor, was Miss Hervey who is the new Lady Orreyed. Dost thou like the picture? Misquith Very good, Cayley! Bravo! Aubrey Laying his hand on Drummle’s shoulder. You’d scarcely believe it, Jayne, but none of us really know anything about this lady, our gay young friend here, I suspect, least of all. Drummle Aubrey, I applaud your chivalry. Aubrey And perhaps you’ll let me finish a couple of letters which Frank and Jayne have given