They both became aware at the same moment that Lord John was coming slowly down the last steps, with Stonor still more slowly following, talking Land Tenure. As Miss Levering rose and hurriedly turned over the things on the table to look for her veil, the handkerchief she had shut in her little Italian book dropped out. A further shifting of plans and papers sent it unobserved to the floor. Jean put once more the question that had remained unanswered.
'They collect too great crowds,' Miss Levering answered her. 'The authorities won't let them meet in Trafalgar Square after to-day. They have their last meeting there at three o'clock.'
'To-day! That's no use to people out of town--unless I could invent some excuse----'
'Wait till you can go without inventions and excuses.'
Lord John came forward, leaving Stonor to his hostess. 'Still talking over your Shelter plan?' he asked benevolently.
'No,' answered Miss Levering, 'we left the Shelter some time ago.'
He pinched his niece's ear with affectionate playfulness.
'Then what's all this chatterment about?'
The girl, a little confused, looked at her fellow-conspirator.
'The latest things in veils,' said Miss Levering, smiling, as she caught up hers.
'The invincible frivolity of women!' said Lord John, with immense geniality.
'Oh, they're coming for you,' Jean said. 'Don't forget your book. When shall I see you again, I wonder?'
But instead of announcing the carriage the servant held out a salver. On it lay a telegraph form scribbled over in pencil.
'Yes, miss. I didn't know you was here, miss. They asked me to write it down, and let you have it as soon as possible.'
'I knew how it would be if I gave in about that telephone!' Lord John arraigned his wife. Even Mr. Stonor had to sympathize. 'They won't leave people in peace even one day in the week.'
'I've got your book,' Jean said, looking at Miss Levering over the top of the telegraph form, and then glancing at the title as she restored the volume to its owner. 'Dante! Whereabouts are you?' She opened it without waiting to hear. 'Oh, the Inferno.'
'No, I'm in a worse place,' said the other, smiling vaguely as she drew on her gloves.
'I forget, were they Guelf or Ghibelline?'
'They weren't either, and that was why Dante couldn't stand them. He said there was no place in Heaven nor in Purgatory--not even a corner in Hell, for the souls who had stood aloof from strife.' The smile faded as she stood there looking steadily into the girl's eyes. 'He called them "wretches who never lived," Dante did, because they'd never felt the pangs of partisanship. And so they wander homeless on the skirts of limbo, among the abortions and off-scourings of Creation.'