hen her husband
accidentally trod on her dress as we left the dining-room.

My witch moved away. We followed. "Well, what do you say to it now?"
she asked, gliding among the beds with noiseless feet and ministering
fingers.

"Say to it?" I answered. "That it is wonderful, wonderful. You have
quite convinced me."

"You would think so," Travers put in, "if you had been in this ward as
often as I have, and observed their faces. It's a dead certainty. Sooner
or later, that type of woman is cock-sure to be assaulted."

"In a certain rank of life, perhaps," I answered, still loth to believe
it; "but not surely in ours. Gentlemen do not knock down their wives and
kick their teeth out."

My Sibyl smiled. "No; there class tells," she admitted. "They take
longer about it, and suffer more provocation. They curb their tempers.
But in the end, one day, they are goaded beyond endurance; and then--a
convenient knife--a rusty old sword--a pair of scissors--anything
that comes handy, like that dagger this morning. One wild blow--half
unpremeditated--and... the thing is done! Twelve good men and true will
find it wilful murder."

I felt really perturbed. "But can we do nothing," I cried, "to warn poor
Hugo?"

"Nothing, I fear," she answered. "After all, character must work itself
out in its interactions with character. He has married that woman,
and he must take the consequences. Does not each of us in life suffer
perforce the Nemesis of his own temperament?"

"Then is there not also a type of men who assault their wives?"

"That is the odd part of it--no. All kinds, good and bad, quick and
slow, can be driven to it at last. The quick-tempered stab or kick;
the slow devise some deliberate means of ridding themselves of their
burden."

"But surely we might caution Le Geyt of his danger!"

"It is useless. He would not believe us. We cannot be at his elbow to
hold back his hand when the bad moment comes. Nobody will be there, as
a matter of fact; for women of this temperament--born naggers, in short,
since that's what it comes to--when they are also ladies, graceful and
gracious as she is; never nag at all before outsiders. To the world,
they are bland; everybody says, 'What charming talkers!' They are
'angels abroad, devils at home,' as the proverb puts it. Some night she
will provoke him when they are alone, till she has reached his utmost
limit of endurance--and then," she drew one hand across her dove-like
throat, "it wil