gainst the walls of my heart."

Their descent was opportune. Some of the local guests were preparing to
make their departure, and Dominey was in time to receive their adieux.
They all left messages for Lady Dominey, spoke of a speedy visit to
her, and expressed themselves as delighted to hear of her return and
recovery. As the last car rolled away, Caroline took her host's arm and
led him to a chimney seat by the huge log fire in the inner hall.

"My dear Everard," she said, "you really are a very terrible person."

"Exactly why?" he demanded.

"Your devotion to my sex," she continued, "is flattering but far too
catholic. Your return to England appears to have done what we understood
to be impossible--restored your wife's reason. A fiery-headed Hungarian
Princess has pursued you down here, and has now gone to her room in
a tantrum because you left her side for a few minutes to welcome your
wife. And there remains our own sentimental little flirtation, a broken
and, alas, a discarded thing! There is no doubt whatever, Everard, that
you are a very bad lot."

"You are distressing me terribly," Dominey confessed, "but all the same,
after a somewhat agitated evening I must admit that I find it pleasant
to talk with some one who is not wielding the lightnings. May I have a
whisky and soda?"

"Bring me one, too, please," Caroline begged. "I fear that it will
seriously impair the note which I had intended to strike in our
conversation, but I am thirsty. And a handful of those Turkish
cigarettes, too. You can devote yourself to me with a perfectly clear
conscience. Your most distinguished guest has found a task after his own
heart. He has got Henry in a corner of the billiard-room and is
trying to convince him of what I am sure the dear man really believes
himself--that Germany's intentions towards England are of a particularly
dove-like nature. Your Right Honourable guest has gone to bed, and Eddy
Pelham is playing billiards with Mr. Mangan. Every one is happy. You
can devote yourself to soothing my wounded vanity, to say nothing of my
broken heart."

"Always gibing at me," Dominey grumbled.

"Not always," she answered quietly, raising her eyes for a moment.
"There was a time, Everard, before that terrible tragedy--the last time
you stayed at Dunratter--when I didn't gibe."

"When, on the contrary, you were sweetness itself," he reflected.

She sighed reminiscently.

"That was a wonderful month," she murmured. "I t