ude of incredulity, till even Muriel was conscious at
last in her inner soul of a faint wonder, a dim and wholly negligible
sense of regret. Not that she would under any circumstances have
recalled that thrust of hers. She felt it had been dealt in fair
fight; but even in fair fight there come sometimes moments of regret,
when one feels that the enemy's hand has been intentionally slack. She
knew well that, had he chosen, Nick might have thrust back, instantly
and disconcertingly, as his manner was. But he had refrained, merely
covering up his wound--if wound there had been--with the laugh that
had so wrung Olga's loving heart. His ways were strange. She would
never understand him. But she would like to have known how deep that
thrust had gone.

Could she have overheard the conversation between Nick and his
remaining guest that followed her departure, she might have received
enlightenment on this point, but Nick took very good care to ensure
that that conversation should be overheard by none.

As soon as Grange had finished his coffee, he proposed a move to the
library, and led the way thither, leaving his own drink untouched
behind him.

The library was a large and comfortable apartment completely shut
away from the rest of the house, and singularly ill-adapted for
eavesdroppers. The windows looked upon a wide stretch of lawn upon
which even a bird could scarcely have lingered unnoticed. The light
that filtered in through green sun-blinds was cool and restful. An
untidy writing-table and a sofa strewn with cushions in disorderly
attitudes testified to the fact that Nick had appropriated this room
for his own particular den. There was also a sun-bonnet tossed upon a
chair which seemed to indicate that Olga at least did not regard his
privacy as inviolable. The ancient brown volumes stacked upon shelves
that ranged almost from floor to ceiling were comfortably undisturbed.
It was plainly a sanctum in which ease and not learning ruled supreme.

Nick established his visitor in an easy-chair and hunted for an
ash-tray. Grange watched him uncomfortably.

"I'm awfully sorry about your arm, Ratcliffe," he said at length. "A
filthy bit of bad luck that."

"Damnable," said Nick.

"I've been meaning to look you up for a long time," Grange proceeded,
"but somehow it hasn't come off."

Nick laughed rather dryly. He was perfectly well aware that Grange had
been steadily avoiding him ever since his return. "Very good of you