I know everything I ought to have
known when we were married. You were very kind to her. You're a
good deal of a man, Duane.

"I want to add something: her brother, Stuyve, is out of the
hospital and loose again. He's got all the virtues of a Pomeranian
pup--that is, none; and he'll make a rotten bad fist of it. I'll
tell you now that, during the past winter, twice, when drunk, he
shot at his sister. She did not tell me this; he did, when in a
snivelling condition at the hospital.

"So God knows what he may do in this matter. It seems that the
blackguard in question has been warned to steer clear of
Stuyvesant. It's up to them. I shall be glad to have Sylvia at Cape
Town for a while.

"Delancy Grandcourt was witness for me, Rosalie for Sylvia. Delancy
is a brick. Won't you ask him up to Roya-Neh? He's dying to go.

"And this is all. It's a queer life, isn't it, old fellow? But a
good sporting proposition, anyway. It suits me.

"Our love to you, to the little chatelaine of Roya-Neh, to her
brother, to Kathleen.

"Tell them we are married and off for Cape Town, but tell them no
more.

"B. Gray."

"It isn't necessary to say burn this scrawl."

Geraldine, watching him in calm speculation, said:

"I don't see why they were married so quietly. Nobody's in mourning----"

"Dear?"

"What, dear?"

"Do something for me."

"I promise."

"Then ask Delancy up here to shoot. Do you mind?"

"I'd love to. Can he come?"

"I think so."

"I'll write now. Won't it be jolly," she said innocently, "to have him
and Rosalie here together----"

The blank change on his face checked her. "Isn't it all right?" she
asked, astonished.

He had made his blunder. There was only one thing for him to say and he
said it cordially, mentally damning himself for forgetting that Rosalie
was to be invited.

"I'll write to them both this morning," concluded Geraldine. "Of course
poor Jack Dysart is out of the question."

"A little," he said mildly. And, furious with himself, he rose as she
stood up, and followed her into the armory, her cool little hand
trailing and just touching his.

For half an hour they prowled about, examining Winchesters, Stevens,
Maenlichers--every make and pattern of rifle and fowling-piece was
represented in Scott's collection.

"Odd, isn't it, that he never shoots