A mood darker than any he had lately known settled over him. It was
natural for Ludowika to be lonely, at first; but in a little she would
grow to love the wild like himself. She must. The Province was to be her
life. He was standing before the fire in the informal chamber beyond the
dining room, watching his mother's vigorous hands deftly engaged in
embroidery. There was no one present, and a sudden, totally desperate
recklessness possessed him. Isabel Penny said:

"Mr. Winscombe will be here shortly."

"I wish it would be to-night," he declared. She raised her calm gaze
with brows arched in inquiry. "There is something--" he broke off. "She
belongs to me," he said in a low, harsh voice, "and not to that old
man."

Mrs. Penny secured her needle, and put the colourful web aside. She was,
as he had been sure she would be, entirely composed, admirable. Her
questioning look grew keener. "I was afraid of that," she admitted
simply; "after the first. It is very unpleasant and difficult. This is
not London, and your father will make no allowances. You are not any
easier to bend, Howat. With Mrs. Winscombe--" she paused, "I am not
certain. But there is no doubt about the husband."

"She belongs to me," he reiterated sullenly.

"There is no need for you to make yourself offensively clear. I know
something of details of that kind. I told you once that they might mean
only a very little to--to certain women. I am not prepared to judge
about that. But I know you, what bitter feeling you are capable of. You