suspected Constance of being in love with Ulstervelt; and yet, on the
other hand, was he any better off for this cheerful argument? There was
nothing to prove that she cared for him, notwithstanding this agreeable
conclusion by contrast. As a matter of fact, he came earthward with a
rush, weighted down by the conviction that she did not care a rap for
him except as a conveniently moral brother-in-law. He was further
distressed by Edith's comfortless, though perhaps well-qualified,
announcement that she believed her sister to be in love; she could not
imagine with whom; she only knew she "acted as if she were."

"Besides, Roxbury," she said warningly, "it's a most degenerate husband
who falls in love with his wife's sister."

They were walking in one of the mountain paths, some distance behind the
others. They did not know that Mrs. Odell-Carney had stopped to rest in
the leafy niche above the path. She was lazily fanning herself on the
stone seat that man had provided as an improvement to nature. Being a
sharp-eared person with a London drawing-room instinct, she plainly
could hear what they were saying as they approached. These were the
first words she fully grasped, and they caused her to prick up her ears:

"I don't give a hang, Edith. I'm tired of being her brother-in-law."

"You're tired of me, Roxbury, that's what it is," in plaintive tones.

"You're happy, you love and are loved, so please don't put it that way.
It's not fair. Think of the pitiable position I'm in."

"My dear Roxbury," quite severely, "if there's nothing else that will
influence you, just stop to consider the che-ild! There's Tootles, dear