"No, we haven't!" flashed Columbine. "I wouldn't stoop. But I'm not
going to sit down to supper with a man who hasn't learnt manners. I'd
sooner go without--much."

Rufus remained absolutely unmoved. He made no attempt at
self-justification, though Mrs. Peck was staring from one to the other
in mystified interrogation.

Columbine turned swiftly and caught up a cover for the savoury dish that
steamed on the table. "You'd better let me take this in before it gets
cold," she said.

"No; put it on the rack!" commanded Mrs. Peck. "There's a drop of soup
to go in first. And, Columbine, my dear, I don't think it's right of you
to go losing your temper that way. Rufus is Adam's son, remember, and
you can't refuse to sit at table with him."

"Leave her alone, Mother!" For the second time Rufus intervened. "I've
offended her. My mistake. I'll know better next time."

His deep voice was wholly devoid of humour. It was, in fact, devoid of
any species of emotion whatever. Yet, oddly enough, the anger died out
of Columbine's face as she heard it. She turned to the tablecloth-press
and began to unwind it in silence.

Mrs. Peck sniffed, and took up the soup-tureen.

As she waddled out of the kitchen Columbine withdrew the parlour
tablecloth and turned round.