"My wife has no carriage, Lady Tatham."

"Oh, Edmund--we might hire something," said his wife imploringly.

"I do not permit it," he said resolutely. "Good-bye, Lady Tatham. You are
like all women--you think the cracked vase will hold water. It won't."

"What are you going to do here, Edmund?"

"I am a collector--and works of art amuse me."

"And I can do nothing--for you--or your wife?"

"Nothing. I am sorry if you feel us on your mind. Don't. I would have
gone farther from you, if I could. But seven miles--are seven miles."

Lady Tatham coloured. She shook hands with Netta.

Melrose held the door open for her. She swept through the hall, and
hurried into her carriage. She and Melrose touched hands ceremoniously,
and the brougham with its fine roan horses was soon out of sight.

A miserable quarrel followed between the husband and wife. Netta,
dissolved in hysterical weeping, protested that she was a prisoner and an
exile, that Edmund had brought her from Italy to this dreary place to
kill her, that she couldn't and wouldn't endure it, and that return to
Italy she must and would, if she had to beg her way. It was cruel to shut
her up in that awful house, to deny her the means of getting about, to
treat people who wished to be kind to her as Edmund had treated Lady
Tatham. She was not a mere caterpillar to be trodden on. She would appeal