walls with a wondering eye, and turned
to Gerald for an explanation.

Gerald had subsided on to an occasional table, and was weeping softly
again. It had come over him once more that he had been very, very badly
treated.

"Well!" said Sally with a gasp. "You've certainly made a good job of
it!"

There was a sharp crack as the occasional table, never designed by its
maker to bear heavy weights, gave way in a splintering flurry of broken
legs under the pressure of the master of the house: and Sally's mood
underwent an abrupt change. There are few situations in life which do
not hold equal potentialities for both tragedy and farce, and it was
the ludicrous side of this drama that chanced to appeal to Sally at
this moment. Her sense of humour was tickled. It was, if she could have
analysed her feelings, at herself that she was mocking--at the feeble
sentimental Sally who had once conceived the absurd idea of taking this
preposterous man seriously. She felt light-hearted and light-headed, and
she sank into a chair with a gurgling laugh.

The shock of his fall appeared to have had the desirable effect of
restoring Gerald to something approaching intelligence. He picked
himself up from the remains of a set of water-colours, gazing at Sally
with growing disapproval.

"No sympathy," he said austerely.

"I can't help it," cried Sally. "It's too funny."

"Not funny," corrected Gerald, his brain beginning to cloud once more.

"What did you do it for?"

Gerald returned for a moment to that mood of honest indignation, which
had so strengthened his arm when wielding the niblick. He bethought him
once again of his grievance.

"Wasn't going to stand for it any longer," he said heatedly. "A fellow's
wife goes and lets him down... ruins his show by going off and playing
in another show... why shouldn't I smash her things? Why should I stand
for that sort of treatment? Why should I?"

"Well, you haven't," said Sally, "so there's no need to discuss it. You
seem to have acted in a thoroughly manly and independent way."

"That's it. Manly independent." He waggled his finger impressively.
"Don't care what she says," he continued. "Don't care if she never comes
back. That woman..."

Sally was not prepared to embark with him upon a discussion of the
absent Elsa. Already the amusing aspect of the affair had begun to fade,
and her hilarity was giving way to a tired distaste for the sordidness
of the whole business. She had become