and laughed weakly; helplessly, till the tears ran down her
cheeks. And with those tears ran away her anger, the hot, strained
sensation that had been within her even since the scene at Arkell House.
If she had womanly pride it melted ignominiously. If she had feminine
dignity--that pure and sacred panoply which man ignores at his own
proper peril--it disappeared. The "poor old Fritz" feeling, which was
the most human, simple, happy thing in her heart, started into vivacity
as she realised the long legs flowing into air over the edge of the
short sofa, the pent-up fury--fury of the too large body on the
too small resting-place--which found a partial vent in the hallowed
objurgation of the British Philistine.

With every moment that she lay in the big bed she was punishing
Fritz. She nestled down among the pillows. She stretched out her limbs
luxuriously. How easy it was to punish a man! Lying there she recalled
her husband's words, each detail of his treatment of her since she had
spoken to Carey. He had called her "a damned shameful woman." That was
of all the worst offence. She told herself that she ought to, that
she must, for that expression alone, hate Fritz for ever. And then,
immediately, she knew that she had forgiven it already, without effort,
without thought.

She understood the type with which she had to deal, the absurd
boyishness that was linked with the brutality of it, the lack of mind
to give words their true, their inmost meaning. Words are instruments of
torture, or the pattering confetti of a carnival, not by themselves but
by the mind that sends them forth. Fritz's exclamation might have roused
eternal enmity in her if it had been uttered by another man. Coming from
Fritz it won its pardon easily by having a brother, "Damn."

She wondered how long her husband would be ruled by his sense of
outrage.

Towards seven she heard another movement; another indignant exclamation,
then the creak of furniture, a step, a rattling at the door. She turned
on her side towards the wall, shut her eyes and breathed lightly and
regularly. The key revolved, the door opened and closed, and she heard
feet shuffling cautiously over the carpet. A moment and Fritz was in
bed. Another moment, a long sigh, and he was asleep.

Lady Holme still lay awake. Now that her attention was no longer fixed
upon her husband's immediate proceedings she began to wonder again what
had happened between him and Rupert Carey. She would f