e a woman whose husband
insults her, and yet, for the sake of that very woman, to be unable to
avenge the insult.

Before the company could assume more than a strained semblance of
naturalness, those guests who had gone out to vote in the division,
returned. One of them, a sporting member, a good-natured but typically
John Bullish type of M. P. and a country neighbour of John Arundel's,
called out as he took his seat:

"Hullo, John! What's gone wrong with your feast? Somebody's been
throwing wet blankets over the tablecloth."

He was quickly suppressed. The other men looked curious, but having more
"gumption," began talking commonplaces with a commendable show of having
noticed nothing unusual. Later on, Oswald Tyne murmured to the Countess
Hohenfels:

"I have often thought that the exquisite virtue of Nero's vice is much
underestimated. Suppose him as presiding in the present case, for
instance. I presume that the brute over there is regarded by many as 'a
Christian gentleman.' Think how many 'Christian gentlemen' Nero disposed
of by the simple device of wrapping them in pitch and applying fire. Do
you not think that this festival would have been much more festive had
it been lighted by the Hon. Cecil, as a living torch?"

But the Countess Hohenfels, although she was not noted for sensibility,
could not rally, even to the persiflage of Oswald Tyne.

When Arundel was apologising to Prince Suberov after dinner, the
impassive Russian said quietly:

"I beg you not to give the matter another thought. The young man is
evidently demented. Our sympathy should all be for his wife. What a
beautiful, distinguished creature! When all is said, living is a sad
_metier_!"

As soon as the guests rose from table, Chesney left. Sophy's pride would
not allow her to go before the usual hour for such things. Every one was
charming to her--almost too charming. At moments she felt that she could
not bear it--that she must scream frantically, childishly, like Bobby
when he had had a bad dream--or throw herself over the parapet into the
Thames. But her face, though it had a pinched look, was very quiet.

Olive managed to whisper to her, once as they stood close together:

"He's a cwuel _bwute_ ... we must get you out of his power somehow."

"Don't, Olive ... don't speak of it," Sophy had gasped out.

"Very well. But I'll be with you first thing to-morrow."

"No ... please. I must be alone. I must think."

Olive, whose heart wa