"There's nothing to find out. He's an excellent fellow."

"A stupid prig," said Melrose passionately. "Well, you did it!--You did
it!"

"Yes, I did it." Lady Tatham rose quietly. She had paled, and after a
minute's hesitation she held out her hand to Melrose. "Suppose, Edmund,
we bury the hatchet. I should like to be friends with you and your wife,
if you would allow it?"

The change of manner was striking. Up to this moment Lady Tatham had
been, so to speak, the aggressor, venturing audaciously on ground which
she knew to be hostile--from bravado?--or for some hidden reason? But she
spoke now with seriousness--even with a touch of womanly kindness.

Melrose looked at her furiously.

"Lady Tatham, I advise you to leave us alone!"

She sighed, met his eyes a moment, gravely, then turned to Netta.

"Mrs. Melrose, your husband and I have an old quarrel. He wanted to marry
my sister. I prevented it. She is married now--and he is married. Why
shouldn't we make friends?"

"Quarrels are very foolish!" said Netta, sententiously, straightening her
small shoulders. But she dared not look at Melrose.

"Well, tell him so," laughed Lady Tatham. "And come and see me at Duddon
Castle."

"Thank you! I should like to!" cried Netta.

"My wife has no carriage, Lady Tatham."

"Oh, Edmund--we might hire something," said his wife imploringly.

"I do not permit it," he said resolutely. "Good-bye, Lady Tatham. You are
like all women--you think the cracked vase will hold water. It won't."

"What are you going to do here, Edmund?"

"I am a collector--and works of art amuse me."

"And I can do nothing--for you--or your wife?"

"Nothing. I am sorry if you feel us on your mind. Don't. I would have
gone farther from you, if I could. But seven miles--are seven miles."

Lady Tatham coloured. She shook hands with Netta.

Melrose held the door open for her. She swept through the hall, and
hurried into her carriage. She and Melrose touched hands ceremoniously,
and the brougham with its fine roan horses was soon out of sight.

A miserable quarrel followed between the husband and wife. Netta,
dissolved in hysterical weeping, protested that she was a prisoner and an
exile, that Edmund had brought her from Italy to this dreary place to
kill her, that she couldn't and wouldn't endure it, and that return to
Italy she must and would, if she had to beg her way. It was cruel to shut
her up in that awful house, to deny her the means of get