his fist. It was all very well--he might hate his father, Christine
might hate him, though he knew she didn't, but Edith had no right. She
was an outsider--a bounder----

"He is faithful to his ideal," Christine answered. "He is always
looking for it and thinking he has found it. And except for Constance
he has always been mistaken."

"Thank you."

"I wasn't thinking of you," Christine explained. "There have been so
many of them--and all so terribly expensive--never cheap or
common----"

They were dragging the carpet out into the landing. Their voices
sounded louder and more distinct.

"I could bear almost everything but his temper," Edith persisted
breathlessly. "He's like a madman----"

"He's ill--sometimes I think he's very ill----"

"Oh, you've always got an excuse for him, Christine. You never see him
as he really is. I can't think why you didn't marry him yourself. I'm
sure he asked you. Jim couldn't be alone with a woman ten minutes
without proposing. And everyone knows how fond you are of him and of
that tiresome child----"

Robert Stonehouse gasped. The earth reeled under his feet. The stump
of the cigar rolled off the windowsill, and he himself tumbled from his