llys till next week."

"Well, what of that? _That_ can't be all, surely?"

"You're right, it's not. I was looking in one of his innumerable carved
chests for some novels, when I found a locked velvet case." She stopped
a minute. He was silent.

"I found a key that fitted it," she went on.

"Did you, though?" said Savile.

"In it I found a lovely porcelain picture of a woman. Blanche Tregelly
was written on the back. Where he's staying, you know. I've never seen
her. I vaguely knew Tregelly was more or less married: he was at Oxford
with Chetwode; but as they live so far away I've never got to know
them."

"Don't see your point," said Savile.

"_Why_ has he got that picture, _and_ is staying on?"

"Tregelly," said Savile, "probably gave it to Chetwode to get something
done to it--get it framed or something."

"Chetwode's not a framemaker! Why is he staying on?"

"Because he's having a good time."

"You're shirking the whole thing. The point is that when he stays away
so long, it isn't only racing."

"Of course not. At the Tregellys, it's bridge."

"Yes--and Mrs. Tregelly."

Angry tears again filled her eyes, but she brushed them away.

"You know Chetwode _does_ admire beauty," she said.

Savile looked at the picture. "But only the very _most_ beautiful. I've
never yet seen him admire anything second-rate. Have you?"

She beamed and said, "Savile, _is_ she second-rate?"

"Perhaps not, on porcelain."

"Savile, you _know_ that if Chetwode likes her, she's not only pretty,
but very charming. In fact, I'm certain Blanche is perfectly delightful!
Pretending to oneself that one's rival is hideous and vulgar is a bit
_too_ cheap. It doesn't console me."

"You're worse than an ordinary woman, Felicity," said Savile, with a
laugh. "What do you propose to do? Go and consult George Lewis?"

"You're worse than an ordinary boy. I'm consulting you."

"No, you're not. You're asking my opinion. Chetwode is very----" He
paused. "I've never seen him look at any other woman."

"Let's face facts, dear," said Felicity. "It's not what we've seen, of
course."

"What have you decided to do?" said Savile. "To write and tell him
you've found the photograph?"

"Yes."

"I thought you wanted him to come home."

"Don't you?"

"Yes, rather!" said Savile. "And I don't think he _would_ come home if
he thought there was going to be a row of any kind. Lots of people love
rows. He doesn't."

She looked rather at a loss