ful covering up, a
moment's impulse had laid bare the skeleton. It stood between them, a
naked horror, grinning with fleshless lips. Cassandra saw it and
shuddered at the sight, but it was too late to draw back. She caught
her breath, and sat tremblingly waiting for what should come.

What came was a burst of hearty, good-natured laughter. Bernard's eyes
twinkled, his white teeth gleamed. He stretched out a freckled hand and
laid it on his wife's arm.

"That's all right, old girl! Don't you worry about that. You're fond
of me all right, and a rattling good wife. We've been married a dozen
years, and never had a row. If all couples got along as well as we do,
things would be a sight better. What's the use of bothering about love
at this time of day. I'm not a sentimental fellow. I'm satisfied with
things as they are. So are you too, as a rule. Got a fit of the blues,
that's all!--I say, Cass, Peignton's coming to tea, and I met that girl
of the Mallison's,--Teresa, isn't it?--and asked her to come along too,
and make up a game afterwards. She plays a good hand, and Peignton's
engaged to her they say, or going to be. So we will do them a good
turn, as well as ourselves."

Cassandra rose slowly, straightening her shoulders as if throwing off a
weight. Standing there her head was on a level with her husband's, and
for a moment their eyes met, his calm and unperturbed, hers sparkling
and defiant. She had spoken. He had heard the truth, and had laughed
at her for her pains. Now let the Fates bring what they might. He had
been warned...

"Very well, Bernard. I'll have tea early. Shall I order the car to
take her home?"

"Er--no. They'll send. Pony cart or some contraption of the kind.
Peignton'll look after her all right."

He chuckled, aroused to interest in a prospective romance, though his
own had faded. He turned, softly whistling, and fumbled in the bureau,
while Cassandra beat a retreat to her own room.

Now she was angry with herself, sore with the humiliation of an
unnecessary rebuff. "How futile of me! How superfluous to bring it on
my own head! What did I expect?" she asked herself bitterly. She stood
staring out of the window at the landscape, already darkening in the
short February light, while the thoughts chased themselves in her brain.
Her youth,--Bernard,--her marriage,--the birth of her child,--ennui,--
disappointment,--emptiness. The different stages seemed to follow one