n your legs, and I'd be obliged if they'd
presently waft you out of my room."

"I suppose," said Dysart unsteadily, "that you would make yourself
noisily ridiculous if I knocked your blackguard head off."

"It's only in novels that people are knocked down successfully and
artistically," admitted the other. "In everyday life they resent it.
Yes--if you do anything hysterical there will be some sort of a
disgraceful noise, I suppose. It's shoot or suit in these unromantic
days, Dysart, otherwise the newspapers laugh at you."

Dysart's well-shaped fists relaxed, the chair dropped, but even when he
let it go murder danced in his eyes.

"Yes," he said, "it's shoot or a suit in these days; you're perfectly
right, Mallett. And we'll let it go at that for the present."

He stood a moment, straight, handsome, his clearly stencilled eyebrows
knitted, watching Duane. Whatever in the man's face and figure was
usually colourless, unaccented, irresolute, disappeared as he glared
rigidly at the other.

For there is no resentment like the resentment of the neglectful, no
jealousy like the jealousy of the faithless.

"To resume, in plain English," he said, "keep away from my wife,
Mallett. You comprehend that, don't you?"

"Perfectly. Now get out!"

Dysart hesitated for the fraction of a second longer, as though perhaps
expecting further reply, then turned on his heel and walked out.

Later, while Duane was examining his own costume preparatory to trying
it on, Scott Seagrave's spectacled and freckled visage protruded into
the room. He knocked as an after-thought.

"Rosalie sent me. She's dressed in all her gimcracks and wants your
expert opinion. I've got to go----"

"Where is she?"

"In her room. I'm going out to the hatchery with Kathleen----"

"Come and see Rosalie with me, first," said Duane, passing his arm
through Scott's and steering him down the sunny corridor.

When they knocked, Mrs. Dysart admitted them, revealing herself in full
costume, painted and powdered, the blinds pulled down, and the electric
lights burning behind their rosy shades.

"It's my final dress rehearsal," she explained. "Mr. Mallett, _is_ my
hair sufficiently a la Lamballe to suit you?"

"Yes, it is. You're a perfect little porcelain figurette! There's not an
anachronism in you or your make-up. How did you do it?"

"I merely stuck like grim death to your sketches," she said demurely.

Scott eyed her without particular interest. "Very