he flew. She sent
out word that she was not coming down to dinner, and locked herself in
with her truth, to make what she could of it.

CHAPTER XI

ANTEROS

Macartney was no fool in his own world, where a perfectly clear idea
of what you want to do combined with a nonchalant manner of "Take it
or leave it" had always carried him through the intricacies of
business. If he was a fool in supposing that precisely the same
armoury would defend him at home, there is this excuse for him, that
Lucy had encouraged him to suppose it. When she dashed from the room
at this recent moment he sat for some time with his eyes fixed upon
his foolscap; but presently found himself reading the same sentence
over and over again without understanding one word in it. He dropped
the document, rose and picked himself out a cigar, with deliberation
and attention disproportionate to the business. He cut, stabbed and
lighted the cigar, and stood by the mantelpiece, smoking and gazing
out of window.

He had overdone it. He had stretched _regime_ too far. There had been
a snap. Now, just where had he failed? Was it with Francis Lingen?
Perhaps. He must admit, though, that some good had come out of the
trouble. He felt reassured about Francis Lingen, because, as he
judged, women don't get angry in cases of the kind unless the husband
has nothing to be angry about. He felt very world-wise and shrewd as
he propounded this. Women like their husbands to be jealous,
especially if they are jealous with reason. Because, then, they say to
themselves, "Well, anyhow, he loves me still. I have him to fall back
upon, at all events." Capital! He gave a short guffaw, and resumed his
cigar. But Lucy was angry: obviously because he had wasted good
jealousy on a mere fancy. Damn it, he had overdone it. The next
thing--if he didn't look out--would be that she would give him
something to be jealous of. He must calm her--there would be no
difficulty in that, no loss of prestige.

Prestige: that was the thing you wanted to maintain. Discipline be
jiggered--that might do mischief--if you drove it too hard. The fact
was, he was a little too sharp with Lucy. She was a dear, gentle
creature, and no doubt one fell into the habit of pushing a willing
horse. He could see it all now perfectly. He had been put out when he
arrived at the Marchants' too early--she was not there; and then that
old fool Vane with his, "Saw your wife at the Chelsea thing, with
Lingen. T