wer of masking his deadly
qualities in an unreal absorption. At the signal that followed
Durant's last desperate remark the Colonel's tongue leaped as from
an ambush.

His first conversational maneuver was a feint. He inquired, with a
certain affected indifference, what sort of weather Durant had met
with on the journey down, and what sort he had left behind him in
London; and then he seemed inclined to let the weather drop. But
before Durant could get a word in edgeways he had taken it up again
and was handling it like a master. Now he was playing with it,
hovering round it lightly, with a tantalizing approach and flight;
now he had gripped it tight, there was no more wandering from the
point than may be seen in the vacillations of a well-behaved
barometer; the slender topic seemed to grow under his touch, to take
on the proportions of his own enormous egotism; he spoke of last
autumn and the next parish as if he were dealing with immensities of
time and space. And now the Colonel was merged and lost in his
theme; he was whirled along with the stream of things, with moons
and meteors, winds and tides, never for an instant compromising his
character as a well-behaved barometer.

Never for an instant forgetting that he was a Tancred, with a
pedigree dating from the days of feudalism. And after all he looked
such a gentle little fellow that Durant could almost have forgiven
him. He was so beautifully finished off. You could only say of him
that he was fastidious, he had the prejudices of his class. He
scorned to make conversation a sordid traffic in ideas. At any rate,
Durant felt himself released from all obligation to contribute his
share.

He had given it up, and was wondering how on earth they were to get
through the evening. Various dreadful possibilities occurred to him;
music (Miss Tancred and Beethoven on the grand piano); family
prayers; cards; in some places they sat up half the night playing
whist, a game that bored him to extinction. Thank heaven, as there
were but three of them, it would not be whist. Meanwhile it was past
eight and no dinner bell.

As if in answer to his thoughts the Colonel turned sharply to his
daughter.

"Frida, are you sure that you wrote to Mrs. Fazakerly?"

"Quite sure."

"And are you equally certain that she is coming?"

"Quite certain. Unless she has been taken ill."

"What did you say? Taken ill? Taken ill?"

"I did not say she was taken ill, papa; I said nothing but