For if Robina had died he could have married again. As it was, her
infidelity condemned him to a celibacy for which, as she knew, he was
utterly unsuited.

Therefore he thought of her as a cruel and unscrupulous woman. And
when he thought of her he became more sorry for himself than ever.

Now, oddly enough, the Grande Polonaise had set Mr. Cartaret thinking
of Robina. It was not that Robina had ever played it. Robina did not
play. It was not the discords introduced into it by Alice, though
Robina had been a thing of discords. It was that something in him,
obscurely but intimately associated with Robina, responded to that
sensual and infernal tremor that Alice was wringing out of the
Polonaise. So that, without clearly knowing why it was abominable,
Mr. Cartaret said to himself that the tune Alice was playing was an
abominable tune and must be stopped at once.

He went into the drawing-room to stop it.

And Essy, in the kitchen, raised her head and dried her eyes on her
apron.

"If you must make a noise," said Mr. Cartaret, "be good enough to make
one that is less--disturbing."

* * * * *

He stood in the doorway staring at his daughter Alice.