in
his brain; anger such as he had never yet felt towards his wife. The
spirit of his formidable uncle still so far survived in him that
instinctively he blamed the woman; blamed himself also because pride
and a strong distaste for self-assertion had inclined him to an
attitude of masterly inactivity. In this fine fashion, between them,
they had rewarded Dick for an unrecognised act of gallantry that might
well have cost him his life; and nothing now remained but to make such
inadequate atonement as the case admitted. Strange as it may seem, he
had never come so near to loving his friend as at that moment.

As for Quita--was there even the remotest chance that she also . . . ?
His brain refused to complete such a question. The thing was
unthinkable. But in any case his own duty stood out crystal clear.
When he had mastered his anger sufficiently to risk speech, he and she
must come to terms upon this thorny subject once for all. And he must
take his stand upon the bare rock of principle. Let her brand him
bourgeois, Covenanter, what she would. Dick's secret must be kept--at
any cost!

CHAPTER XXXII.

"Love's strength standeth in Love's sacrifice,
And he who suffers most has most to give."
--Hamilton King.

Dinner that evening was an oppressively silent affair. The man's white
Northern anger still smouldered beneath his surface immobility; while
Quita, who could not bring herself to believe in the spontaneity of
Richardson's engagement at mess, was instinctively measuring and
crossing swords with the husband, whose personality held her captive
even while it forced her every moment nearer to the danger-point of
open defiance.

Both were thankful when the solemn farce of eating and drinking came to
an end; and Quita rose with an audible sigh of relief.

"Are you coming into the drawing-room at all?" she asked, addressing
the question to his centre shirt-stud.

"Yes--at once. I have a good deal to say to you."

She raised her eyebrows with a small polite smile, and swept on before
him, her step quickened by the fact that his words had set the blood
rushing through her veins. The dead weight of his silence pulverised
her. Speech, however dangerous, would be pure relief.

Before following, he locked up spirit tantalus and cigar-box with his
wonted deliberation; and on reaching the drawing-room found her
absorbed in contemplation of Dick's portrait, hands clasped behind her,
the un