ng the plain green--when his
desires were satisfied. And he could be brutal and vindictive likewise,
when anyone dared to thwart his will and defy his prejudices.

She staggered about the room, feminine instinct prompting her to
freshen her appearance, to change her soiled, crumpled nightdress, to
throw a piece of lace over her dishevelled head, to pull up the linen
sheets which had been rolled clumsily to the foot of the bed, so that
the blankets could be wrapped round her. But she sank again presently,
exhausted, on her pillows.

In a short time McKeith came back, booted and spurred, and stood as
before looking at her with forbidding sternness.

'You'd better have stopped quiet. I've told Mrs Hensor to come down and
look after you. She knows what to do.'

Bridget cried out passionately: 'I won't have that woman in my room.
How dare you tell her to come near me.'

'Dare! That seems a queer way to put it. However, you can order her out
if you don't want her. There's Maggie--and I'm sending Ninnis back
to-night.'

'When are you coming home?'

'I can't say. I've got things to do--and to think about.'

His words and his manner seemed to convey a sinister meaning.

'I see--you are angry about the black-boy. If you want to know I will
tell you exactly what happened.'

He laughed again and his laugh sounded to her insulting.

'Oh, I know what has happened. You needn't tell me. I had some
conversation with Harris this morning. I know EVERYTHING; and now I've
got to settle in my own mind how things are to go on.'

She went very white and repeated dully: 'How--things--are to go on?'

'Between you and me. You don't imagine, do you, that they can go on the
same?'

'No,' she retorted with spirit, 'certainly they can't go on the same.'

Maggie had come along the veranda and was at the French window.

'Mr Harris says he's ready, sir, and the horses....'

'All right.' McKeith went out of the door, but turned and paused as if
he were going to speak to his wife. But he thought better of it and
walked rapidly away--perhaps because she avoided his look.

She supposed that he was infuriated with her because of her part in
Wombo's escape, and she thought his anger unjust. No doubt, too, he
suspected Maule's connivance, and she knew that he was furiously
jealous of Maule. But surely he would understand that she must have
sent Maule away. What more can a wife do in the case of an
over-insistent lover? And how should a hu