hat's that? You haven't said a
word for fifteen minutes? Oh, la, la, la! well, I don't care. Anyhow, I
have, and I am perfectly sure they heard me, and I am sure I don't care
in the least, and it's all your fault, anyway. Oh, but you have an
abominable nature, Rudolph--a mean and cruel and suspicious nature. Your
bald-headed little Charteris is nothing whatever to me; and I would have
been quite willing to give him up if you had spoken to me in a decent
manner about it. You only _said_----? I don't care what you said; and
besides, if you did speak to me in a decent manner, it simply shows that
your thoughts were so horrid and vulgar that even you weren't so
abandoned as to dare to put them into words. Very well, then, I won't be
seen so much with him in future. I realize you are quite capable of
beating me if I don't give way to your absurd prejudices. Yes, you are,
Rudolph; you're just the sort of man to take pleasure in beating a
woman. After the exhibition of temper you've given this afternoon, I
believe you are capable of anything. Hand me that parasol! Don't keep on
talking to me; for I don't wish to hear anything you have to say. You're
simply driving me to my grave with your continual nagging and abuse and
fault-finding. I'm sure I wish I were dead as much as you do. Is my hat
on straight? How do you expect me to see into that mirror if you stand
directly in front of it? There! not content with robbing me of every
pleasure in life, I verily believe you were going to let me go
downstairs with my hat cocked over one ear. And don't you snort and look
at me like that. I'm not going to meet Mr. Charteris. I'm going driving
with Felix Kennaston; he asked me at luncheon. I suppose you'll object
to him next; you object to all my friends. Very well! Now you've made me
utterly miserable for the entire afternoon, and I'm sure I hope you are
satisfied."

There was a rustle of skirts, and the door slammed.

IV

Colonel Musgrave went to his own room, where he spent an interval in
meditation. He opened his desk and took out a small packet of papers,
some of which he read listlessly. How curiously life re-echoed itself!
he reflected, for here, again, were castby love-letters potent to breed
mischief; and his talk with Polly Ashmeade had been peculiarly
reminiscent of his more ancient talk with Clarice Pendomer. Everything
that happened seemed to have happened before.

But presently he shook his head, sighing. Chance