And so they parted.
When Lady Theodosia came in a few moments later, she found Cynthia standing cold and passive where Provence had left her—by the fireplace. As her aunt entered she looked at the clock. "I suppose," she said, "we ought to hurry, or we shall lose the train."
Lady Theodosia's heart beat high with pride when she remembered that, after all, this self-control ran in the family.
It was not until Provence had wandered blind and despairing through the streets for more than two hours that he remembered a note he had in his pocket from Golightly's tippling friend. This note had evidently been written under considerable agitation, and entreated him to call that day. Provence decided to forego the grim pleasure of brooding over his own misery, and drove to Golightly's chambers.
The tippling friend, whose name was Collingwood, received him.
"Thank God, you've come," he said. "I'm in a devil of a way. I want to talk to you about Golightly. He's in trouble. God knows what's up, but something is going to happen. I feel it."
"What is the trouble?" said Provence.
"The usual trouble," roared Collingwood; "Potiphar's wife."
"Are you quite sure you know what you're talking about?"
"I don't know who the woman is, but I know she's a bad one. When a man talks of ruining himself for a woman he can't conscientiously call an angel till he's
