'Isn't Henry coming in? Where is he?' he demanded wildly.

'Are you so anxious to see Henry at the moment?'

'I am. Mrs. Warrington, I am ashamed to admit the preposterous idea
that came into my mind just now. You and Henry would never forgive
me--never countenance me again--it was intolerable, incredible----' He
paused and wiped his brow. 'Why doesn't Henry come in?'

'What was the preposterous idea?' I asked, wondering.

'Well, you'll hardly believe it--scarcely realize what you've
escaped . . . just now, had you been a foot closer to me I believe--I
believe, Mrs. Warrington, I should have kissed you!'

I moved a step nearer to him. 'William, I should never have forgiven
you if you had,' I said, raising my face to his so that he could see
how intensely earnest I was.

The door opened, and Henry and Marion came in together.

'Netta!' exclaimed Marion, 'how could you!'

'My dear,' remarked Henry, 'I am surprised. How is it I come in and
find a man kissing you?'

'I don't know, Henry,' I replied meekly, 'unless it's because that door
opens so quietly!'

CHAPTER XV

An exclamation from William made us all turn and look at him.

'I must have been mad,' he groaned, sinking into a chair and covering
his face with his hands.

'That's what I thought myself just now when I caught sight of your
waistcoat,' said Henry, staring at him. 'What is the meaning of all
this--why the flawless trousers, the immaculate morning coat?'

'I--I--put on a morning coat because you said I wasn't to get into
evening dress,' he replied. 'I know it isn't the correct thing for
dinner, but you've only yourself to blame.'

Henry continued to stare at him. 'I was quite right. Your brain is
unhinged, William. When I last saw you, you appeared fairly
normal--and now I come in and discover you arrayed like the lilies of
the field and kissing my wife.'

William gave a cry like a wounded animal. 'Your indictment is only too
true. Henry, it is terrible. I can never even hope for your
forgiveness for such a heinous offence. The only reparation I can make
is to go forth from your house, shake from my feet the dust of your
hospitable roof----'

'That metaphor's wrong, William,' I interposed.

'--and pass out of your lives for ever.'

'What on earth are you talking about, old chap?' inquired Henry.

'Have I not betrayed the trust you always reposed in me?'

'I wouldn't put it as strong as that,' replied Henry, eye