-I--I've begun wrong end, Mrs. Elliot; I should have said
that I've thought chiefly of you for six years, and that though I talk
here so respectfully, if I once unhooked my hands--"

There was a pause. Then she said with great sweetness, "Thank you; I am
glad you love me," and rang the bell.

"What have you done that for?" he cried.

"Because you must now leave the house, and never enter it again."

"I don't go alone," and he began to get furious.

Her voice was still sweet, but strength lay in it too, as she said,
"You either go now with my thanks and blessing, or else you go with
the police. I am Mrs. Elliot. We need not discuss Mr. Elliot. I am Mrs.
Elliot, and if you make one step towards me I give you in charge."

But the maid answered the bell not of the drawing-room, but of the front
door. They were joined by Mr. Elliot, who held out his hand with much
urbanity. It was not taken. He looked quickly at his wife, and said, "Am
I de trop?" There was a long silence. At last she said, "Frederick, turn
this man out."

"My love, why?"

Robert said that he loved her.

"Then I am de trop," said Mr. Elliot, smoothing out his gloves. He would
give these sodden barbarians a lesson. "My hansom is waiting at the
door. Pray make use of it."

"Don't!" she cried, almost affectionately. "Dear Frederick, it isn't a
play. Just tell this man to go, or send for the police."

"On the contrary; it is French comedy of the best type. Don't you agree,
sir, that the police would be an inartistic error?" He was perfectly
calm and collected, whereas they were in a pitiable state.

"Turn him out at once!" she cried. "He has insulted your wife. Save me,
save me!" She clung to her husband and wept. "He was going I had managed
him--he would never have known--" Mr. Elliot repulsed her.

"If you don't feel inclined to start at once," he said with easy
civility, "Let us have a little tea. My dear sir, do forgive me for not
shooting you. Nous avons change tout cela. Please don't look so nervous.
Please do unclasp your hands--"

He was alone.

"That's all right," he exclaimed, and strolled to the door. The hansom
was disappearing round the corner. "That's all right," he repeated in
more quavering tones as he returned to the drawing-room and saw that it
was littered with sweet-peas. Their colour got on his nerves--magenta,
crimson; magenta, crimson. He tried to pick them up, and they escaped.
He trod them underfoot, and they multiplied