mockery--the kindly mockery which his face wore before they quarrelled,
and before its light was quenched in that forlorn bewilderment. And it
seemed as though the image began to say some words to her, disconnected
words, not making a sentence, but yet having for the image a pregnant
meaning, and seeming to her--though vaguely and very dimly--to be the key
to what she had to understand. She was stupid not to understand words so
full of meaning--just as stupid as Beaumaroy had thought.

Then Doctor Mary fell asleep, sound asleep; she had been very near it for
the last ten minutes.

Captain Alec and Cynthia were in two chairs, close side by side, in front
of the fire. Once Cynthia glanced over her shoulder; the Captain had
glanced over his in the same direction already. One of his hands held one
of Cynthia's. It was well to be sure that Mary was asleep, really asleep.

She had gone to sleep on the name of Beaumaroy; on it she awoke. It came
from Captain Alec's lips. He was standing on the hearthrug with his arm
round Cynthia's waist, and his other hand raising one of hers to his
lips. He looked admirably handsome--strong, protecting, devoted. And
Cynthia, in her fragile appealing prettiness, was a delicious foil, a
perfect complement to the picture. But now, under stress of
emotion--small blame to a man who was making a vow of eternal
fidelity!--under stress of emotion, as, on a previous occasion, under
that of indignation, the Captain had raised his voice!

"Yes, against all the scoundrels in the world, whether they're called
Cranster or Beaumaroy!" he said.

Mary's eyes opened. She sat up. "Cranster and Beaumaroy?" They were the