ired behind his propped-up morning paper.

When he had finished breakfast--she ate nothing--he moved silently into
his accustomed chair.

She moved across as usual to light a match for his after-breakfast pipe.

"No thanks," he said brutally. "I don't want to smoke. And I shan't
work to-day of course."

She went out, hardened against such a foul attack, and half a minute
later, from the next room, heard him strike a match....

Soon after eleven, when he had gone--work or no--into his own room,
Lily announced Mr. Alison.

"Yes, I suppose so," she said dully.

He came in, very different from his late jaunty self, and threw a rapid
glance at her, limp on the sofa. Her red eyes told their tale.

"You know then?" he asked. It was in some ways a relief.

She waited until she judged Lily to be safely through the swing-door:
then she got up, by a natural instinct, and confronted him.

"I wonder," she said, "you dare come at all."

He looked anxiously about him. "Tell me," he asked almost in a
whisper, "is he very sick?"

It was her turn to laugh contempt. "Oh, of course you think of
yourself first! You're safe, though, here; trust him not to come near
_me_!"

"No," said the other with an absurd dignity, "you wrong me. I meant,
is he jealous?"

"Jealous?" she retorted in bewilderment. "No, why should he be? Of
what?"

Geoffrey Alison suddenly found this difficult to answer and whilst he
hesitated, feeling justly hurt, the storm was on him with its utmost
force.

"I wonder," she said once again, for Man flies to a tag in moments of
emotion, "I wonder you dare come and see me. I trusted you with all my
happiness--with everything; you swore you'd never fail me; and now----"
She spread her arms in a pathetic gesture; then suddenly inadequate, a
girl: "It really is too bad of you."

"Oh, come I say," he started. He had arrived full of shame and dread,
realising from his newspaper that he had been tricked into a betrayal;
but now that her onslaught was so tame--merely "too bad,"--he visibly
regained his courage. "I think," he went on, almost aggrieved, "you
might give me a chance of clearing myself. It's not my fault at all,
it's that swine Blatchley. I dined with him three nights ago and
utterly refused to say a word about it, but he tricked me somehow. I
still don't see how the cad did it, but he must have because nobody
else knew. I'm awfully sorry, Zoe----"

That roused her. "Don't call me