My Third Stage begins within the genteel backdrop of an afternoon social event, where civility masks the quiet churn of rivalry. At the center of this subtle drama is Sigismund Zaluski—a man whose foreign elegance and ease provoke both admiration and disquiet in those around him. His calm presence and cultured conversation hold sway over the company, drawing particular attention from Gertrude Morley, whose growing fondness for Zaluski is visible, though never spoken aloud. Among the onlookers is James Blackthorne, a local curate, whose sense of security in Muddleton’s social scene is unsettled by the arrival of this cosmopolitan guest.

Blackthorne, though soft-spoken in appearance, harbors a deep unease as he observes the effortless camaraderie between Gertrude and Zaluski. The tennis match between the two, which others find charming and harmless, triggers a sharp pang of inferiority in him. Each graceful serve and easy laugh exchanged on the court becomes, in Blackthorne’s mind, a quiet humiliation—an erosion of the place he once felt sure of. His discomfort grows not from any wrongdoing on Zaluski’s part, but from the realization that charm, not earnestness, may win affection and social favor more quickly.

What begins as internal discomfort soon finds voice through idle words. Spurred by the influence of a rumor already whispered in shadowed corners, Blackthorne allows himself to speak—cautiously at first, then with greater assurance. In a private conversation with Mrs. Milton-Cleave, he casually introduces the idea that Zaluski’s background might not be as innocent as it appears. His statements are careful, posed as protective concerns, laced with vague references to “certain readings” and “unsettling leanings” attributed to foreign radicals.

These remarks, despite their vagueness, resonate with Mrs. Milton-Cleave’s desire to feel informed and significant. She absorbs Blackthorne’s hints, her imagination coloring in the gaps with dangerous ideologies and scandalous pasts. The slander, having found another willing host, begins its journey again—transformed from mere suspicion to something closer to fact in the retelling. Within hours, the quiet warning passed from Blackthorne is already being repeated with more certainty, touching ears that never heard Zaluski speak for himself.

Meanwhile, Zaluski remains unaware of the shadow beginning to stretch behind him. In a more secluded part of the garden, he and Gertrude share a tender conversation, removed from the hum of gossip. Their words are full of hope and sincerity, revealing not only affection but the mutual recognition of a bond that might become permanent. For them, the world seems still, uncomplicated—while all around, the air thickens with assumptions, envy, and silent judgment.

The contrast between the purity of Zaluski and Gertrude’s exchange and the creeping distortion of his character outside their view highlights the devastating path that slander can travel. It does not need facts to thrive—only implication, only suggestion spoken with a furrowed brow or a lowered voice. And once it begins, few pause to ask questions. Instead, they listen, repeat, and nod with concern, never realizing they are participating in something corrosive.

This chapter skillfully reveals how fragile reputations can be when people favor impression over inquiry. The slander moves not because it is true, but because it satisfies a hidden hunger—for influence, for certainty, or simply for something to talk about. Through Blackthorne’s envy and Mrs. Milton-Cleave’s eagerness, the narrative demonstrates how easily the smallest seed of doubt can blossom into destructive belief. And though Zaluski remains untainted in deed, his name begins to change in others’ minds.

In the end, what matters is not what Zaluski has done, but what others now choose to believe. This stage of the slander’s evolution makes clear that truth is often powerless against the appeal of a well-told suspicion. The story that began as a fleeting moment of jealousy now grows teeth, ready to bite into the lives it touches next—proof that a whisper, when repeated enough, can thunder louder than fact.