not angry, I am not
jealous, nor do I put the matter on any high moral grounds. I simply say
it won't do--no, hang it, it won't do!"

"I dare not question you are an authority in such matters," said John
Charteris, sweetly--"since among many others, Clarice Pendomer is near
enough to be an obtainable witness."

Colonel Musgrave grimaced. "But what a gesture!" he thought,
half-enviously. Jack Charteris, quite certainly, meant to make the most
of the immunity Musgrave had purchased for him. None the less, Musgrave
had now his cue. Patricia must be listening.

And so what Colonel Musgrave said was: "Put it that a burnt child dreads
the fire--is that a reason he should not warn his friends against it?"

"At least," said Charteris at length, "you are commendably frank. I
appreciate that, Rudolph. I honestly appreciate the fact you have come
to me, not as the husband of that fiction in which kitchen-maids
delight, breathing fire and speaking balderdash, but as one sensible man
to another. Let us be frank, then; let us play with the cards upon the
table. You have charged me with loving your wife; and I answer you
frankly--I do. She does me the honor to return this affection. What,
then, Rudolph?"

Musgrave blew out a puff of smoke. "I don't especially mind," he said,
slowly. "According to tradition, of course, I ought to spring at your
throat with a smothered curse. But, as a matter of fact, I don't see why
I should be irritated. No, in common reason," he added, upon
consideration, "I am only rather sorry for you both."

Mr. Charteris sprang to his feet, and walked up and down the beach. "Ah,
you hide your feelings well," he cried, and his laughter was a trifle
unconvincing and a bit angry. "But it is unavailing with me. I know! I
know the sick and impotent hatred of me that is seething in your heart;
and I feel for you the pity you pretend to entertain toward me. Yes, I
pity you. But what would you have? Frankly, while in many ways an
estimable man, you are no fit mate for Patricia. She has the sensitive,
artistic temperament, poor girl; and only we who are cursed with it can
tell you what its possession implies. And you--since frankness is the
order of the day, you know--well, you impress me as being a trifle
inadequate. It is not your fault, perhaps, but the fact remains that you
have never amounted to anything personally. You have simply traded upon
the accident of being born a Musgrave of Matocton. In consequence yo