But she was amiable,
even demonstrative in her professions of admiration and enthusiasm for
Owen's wife. Her regard for the Doctor was elaborate in the sisterliness
of its expression when he was present, if in his absence it was tempered
by a regretful sigh--even by a reference to the time:

"_When poor dear Owen thought me the only woman worth looking at in the
whole world._ Ah, well! that is all over, long ago!" Mildred would say,
with an inflection that was meant to be tenderly reassuring. And she
would tilt her still pretty head on one side and smile with pensive
kindness at her successor upon the throne of poor dear Owen's heart.

These gentle, retrospective references were never made in the Doctor's
hearing. With truly feminine tact they were reserved for Mrs. Owen's
delectation. And possibly they might have rankled in those pretty
shell-like ears, if their owner had loved Saxham.

But Saxham knew that she did not;--had even ceased to wish that the
miracle might be wrought. Brainy men can be very dense. When she stamped
her foot and cried, "I decline to accept Mrs. Saxham's invitation, either
with you or without you. I wonder that you should dream of asking me to!
If you can forget how hideously she and your brother have treated you, I
cannot! I loathe treachery! I abominate ingratitude and deceit! And I hate
her--and I shall not go!" Saxham opened his eyes, as well he might. He had
never before seen his wife otherwise than gentle and submissive. He found
his own bitter explanation of the sudden storm that had burst among the
debris of dessert on the Harley Street dinner-table. Her fetters were
galling her to agony, he knew! His square pale face grew more
Rhadamanthine than ever, and the glass he had been filling with port
overflowed unnoticed on the cloth. But he kept the mask of set composure
before his agony of remorse. Then the frou-frou of light silken draperies
passed over the soft carpet. The door opened and shut with a slam. Lynette
had left the room. As Saxham sat alone, a heavy, brooding figure,
mechanically sipping at his port, and staring at the empty place opposite,
where the overset flower-glass, and the crookedly pushed-back chair, and
the serviette that made a white streak on the dark crimson carpet, marked
the haste and emotion of her departure, he said to himself that the West
End upholsterer who had the contract for refurnishing Plas Bendigaid must
be warned to complete his work without delay.