ver been married,' she said simply.

'Do you mean that you, too, are neglected?' something impelled him to
exclaim.

'Worse,' she murmured.

'It is incredible!' he cried. 'You!'

'Hush! My husband will hear you.'

Her warning whisper brought him into a delicious conspiracy with her.
'Which is your husband?' he whispered back.

'There! Near the casement, standing gazing open-mouthed at Cecilia. He
always opens his mouth when she sings. It is like two toys moved by the
same wire.'

He looked at the tall, stalwart, ruddy-haired Anglo-Saxon. 'Do you mean
to say he--?'

'I mean to say nothing.'

'But you said--'

'I said "worse".'

'Why, what can be worse?'

She put her hand over her face. 'I am ashamed to tell you.' How adorable
was that half-divined blush!

'But you must tell me everything.' He scarcely knew how he had leapt
into this role of confessor. He only felt they were 'moved by the same
wire'.

Her head drooped on her breast. 'He--beats--me.'

'What!' John forgot to whisper. It was the greatest shock his recluse
life had known, compact as it was of horror at the revelation, shamed
confusion at her candour, and delicious pleasure in her confidence.

This fragile, exquisite creature under the rod of a brutal bully!

Once he had gone to a wedding reception, and among the serious presents
some grinning Philistine drew his attention to an uncouth club--'a
wife-beater' he called it. The flippancy had jarred upon John terribly:
this intrusive reminder of the customs of the slums. It grated like
Billingsgate in a boudoir. Now that savage weapon recurred to him--for a
lurid instant he saw Winifred's husband wielding it. Oh, abomination of
his sex! And did he stand there, in his immaculate evening dress, posing
as an English gentleman? Even so might some gentleman burglar bear
through a salon his imperturbable swallow-tail.

Beat a woman! Beat that essence of charm and purity, God's best gift to
man, redeeming him from his own grossness! Could such things be? John
Lefolle would as soon have credited the French legend that English wives
are sold in Smithfield. No! it could not be real that this flower-like
figure was thrashed.

'Do you mean to say--?' he cried. The rapidity of her confidence alone
made him feel it all of a dreamlike unreality.

'Hush! Cecilia's singing!' she admonished him with an unexpected smile,
as her fingers fell from her face.

'Oh, you have been making fun of me.' He was va