him; and that the proper thing, the graceful thing, the thing to which
he would be impelled by all his instincts and traditions, would be to
stand modestly back and see it go. Probably into Sir John Corbett's
hands. And he couldn't. He couldn't. Yet it was clear that the League,
just because it was a League, must have members; even if he had been
prepared to contribute all the funds himself and carry on the whole
business of it single-handed, it couldn't consist solely of Mr.
Waddington of Wyck. His problem was a subtle and difficult one: How to
identify himself with the League, himself alone, in a unique and
indissoluble manner, and yet draw to it the necessary supporters? How to
control every detail of its intricate working (there would be endless
wheels within wheels), and at the same time give proper powers to the
inevitable Committee? If he did not put it quite so crudely as Fanny in
her disagreeable irony, his problem resolved itself into this: How to
divide the work and yet rake in all the credit?

He was saved from its immediate pressure by the sight of the envelope
that waited for him on the breakfast-table, addressed in a familiar
hand.

"Mrs. Levitt--" His emotion betrayed itself to Barbara in a peculiar
furtive yet triumphant smile.

"Again?" said Fanny. (There was no end to the woman and her letters.)

Mrs. Levitt requested Mr. Waddington to call on her that morning at
eleven. There was a matter on which she desired to consult him. The
brevity of the note revealed her trust in his compliance, trust that
implied again a certain intimacy. Mr. Waddington read it out loud to
show how harmless and open was his communion with Mrs. Levitt.