She uttered a laugh that was tremulous with anger. "You've done it for
the first and last time, my man," she said.

With the words she turned like a darting, indignant bird, and left him.

Someone was entering the drawing-room from the hall with a careless,
melodious whistle--a whistle that ended on a note of surprise as
Columbine sped through the room. The whistler--a tall, bronzed young man
in white flannels--stopped short to regard her.

His eyes were grey and wary under absolutely level brows. His hair was
dark, with an inclination--sternly repressed--to waviness above the
forehead. He made a decidedly pleasant picture, as even Adam could not
have denied.

Columbine also checked herself at sight of him, but the red blood was
throbbing at her temples. There was no hiding her agitation.

"You seem in a hurry," remarked Knight. "I hope there is nothing wrong."

His chin was modelled on firm lines, but there was a very distinct cleft
in it that imparted to him the look of one who could smile at most
things. His words were kindly, but they did not hold any very deep
concern.

Columbine came to a stand, gripping the back of a chair to steady
herself. "Oh, I--I have been--insulted!" she panted.

The straight brows went up a little; the man himself stiffened slightly.
Without further words he moved across to the door into the conservatory