om
Town--Trafalgar Square--in a jolting taxi. No, she's too tired.
She'd better go and take off her hat, I think. Where's Taylor?" He
moved towards the bell. "Taylor had better take her up to the
Elizabeth room, or your room if you don't mind."

The outline of Mrs. Durlacher's lips tightened; but Traill took no
notice. He turned to Sally. "Like to lay your hat on the spot where
her gracious Majesty was supposed to have rested a weary head, aching
with finance?" he asked.

Sally smiled. Admiration for him then was intense. Mrs. Durlacher
smiled as well; but for one instant, she winced first.

"Let me do the honours, Jack, _please_," she said sweetly, "at any
rate in my own house."

That was a foolish thing to have said--the first false step she had
taken. But so far in the encounter, she knew she was losing, and it
takes a greater woman than she to play a losing game. In the first
clash of weapons, she had been well-nigh disarmed, and the sting of
the steel in her loosened grip had touched her to that momentary loss
of control. It was not so much the fact that she had spoken of Apsley
as her house. That piece of boasting would have fallen from Traill's
shoulders, shaken off by the shrug with which he would have taken
it. It was the veiled insult to Sally, the ill-concealed suggestion
as to what their relations had been when she had met Sally at the
rooms in Regent Street, that whipped him to reply.

He rang the bell imperturbably. That little action, occupying the
brief moment that it did, gave him ease to temper his feelings; then
he turned.

"Don't let's worry about whose house it is," he said coldly. "Miss
Bishop's tired--that's our first consideration. A taxi's not got the
latest pattern of springs that your car has."

Taylor entered the room.

"Taylor," he added. "Show Miss Bishop up to the Elizabeth room."

He smiled at Sally as she departed; then, when the door had closed,
he turned back to his sister.

Now she was a lost woman, losing a losing game. Her eyes sparkled
with anger; she took her breath rapidly between her teeth.

"How dare you bring your mistresses down here and insult me in my
own house!" she said recklessly. So a woman, the best of them, strikes
when the points are turning against her. It is the rushing blow of
the losing man in the ring. Its comparison can be traced through all
sports--all games. There is always force at the back of the blow,
the brute force of desperation; but, wit