the following scrap of dialogue.  Mary Cavendish was saying in
the voice of a woman desperately controlling herself:

"Then you won't show it to me?"

To which Mrs. Inglethorp replied:

"My dear Mary, it has nothing to do with that matter."

"Then show it to me."

"I tell you it is not what you imagine.  It does not concern you
in the least."

To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising bitterness:

"Of course, I might have known you would shield him."

Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me eagerly with:

"I say! There's been the most awful row! I've got it all out of
Dorcas."

"What kind of a row?"

"Between Aunt Emily and _him_.  I do hope she's found him out at
last!"

"Was Dorcas there, then?"

"Of course not.  She 'happened to be near the door'.  It was a
real old bust-up.  I do wish I knew what it was all about."

I thought of Mrs. Raikes's gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard's
warnings, but wisely decided to hold my peace, whilst Cynthia
exhausted every possible hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, "Aunt
Emily will send him away, and will never speak to him again."

I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Evidently something very momentous had occurred that afternoon.
I tried to forget the few words I had overheard; but, do what I
would, I could not dismiss them altogether from my mind.  What
was Mary Cavendish's concern in the matter?

Mr. Inglethorp was in the drawing-room when I came down to
supper.  His face was impassive as ever, and the strange
unreality of the man struck me afresh.

Mrs. Inglethorp came down last.  She still looked agitated, and
during the meal there was a somewhat constrained silence.
Inglethorp was unusually quiet.  As a rule, he surrounded his
wife with little attentions, placing a cushion at her back, and
altogether playing the part of the devoted husband.  Immediately
after supper, Mrs. Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again.

"Send my coffee in here, Mary," she called.  "I've just five
minutes to catch the post."

Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the
drawing-room.  Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us.  She
seemed excited.

"Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?"
she asked.  "Will you take Mrs. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I
will pour it out."

"Do not trouble, Mary," said Inglethorp.  "I will take it to
Emily." He poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it
carefully.

Lawrence followed him, and Mrs. Cavendish sat down by us.

We three sat for some time in silence.  It was a glorious night,
hot and still.  Mrs. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm
leaf.

"It's almost too hot," she murmured.  "We shall have a
thunderstorm."

Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise
was rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily
disliked, voice in the hall.

"Dr. Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia.  "What a funny time to
come."

I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite
undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary.

In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in,
the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state
for a drawing-room.  In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle,
being literally plastered with mud.

"What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs. Cavendish.

"I must make my apologies," said the doctor.  "I did not really
mean to come in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."

"Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in