ble, and was taking things up and examining them while
he talked. He never, never forgot the expression of a certain brass
porcupine that was somehow a penwiper; it seemed to belong to a world
gone mad, where everything was something else, where porcupines _were_
penwipers, and his wife--

For suddenly his tongue had stopped. He had caught sight of an enormous
bunch of hothouse flowers in a vase on the floor by the writing-table.
Stanistreet's card was in the midst of the bunch, and a note from
Stanistreet lay open on the writing-table.

There was an ominous pause while Tyson read it. It was curt enough; only
an offer of flowers and a ticket for the "Lyceum." Stanistreet's mind
must have been seriously off its balance, otherwise he would never have
done this clumsy thing.

Tyson strode to his wife's chair and tossed the letter into her lap.

"How long has Stanistreet been paying you these little attentions?"

She looked up smiling. I am not sure that she did not think this new tone
of Tyson's was part of the game they were playing together. She had never
taken him seriously.

"Ever since he found out that I liked them, I suppose."

"Did it not occur to you that the things you like are rather expensive
luxuries, some of them?"

"No. Perhaps that's why I hardly ever get them."

"My dear girl, I know the precise amount of Stanistreet's income. Money
can't be any object to him. But perhaps you've a soul above boxes at the
'Criterion,' and champagne suppers afterwards, and the rest of it?"

"I have, unfortunately. But there wasn't any champagne." Her indifferent
voice gave the lie to her beating pulses. Between playing and fighting
there is only a difference of degree.

"Will you kindly tell me why you selected Stanistreet of all people for
this business?"

"I didn't select him--he was always there."

"And if it hadn't been Stanistreet it would have been somebody else? I
see. I hope you appreciate the peculiar advantages of his society?"

"I do. Louis is a gentleman, though he is your friend. He knows how to
talk to women."

"If he doesn't it is not for want of practice. I could swallow all this,
Molly, if you were a little girl just out of the schoolroom; but--I
don't think you've much to learn."

Mrs. Nevill Tyson's eyes flashed. The play had turned to deadly earnest.
"Not much, thanks to you," said she. Her voice sank. "Louis was good to
me."

"Was he? '_Good_' to you--How extremely touching! Pray, we