What was Norman thinking? What was the stranger saying out in the little
salon? No, no, she would not think thus. She would repeat something to
quiet herself--poetry--what should it be? Ah, here is Eric.

It was Eric. His face was flushed. His lip curled. "Coward! craven!" he
exclaimed, "Coward, craven."

"Well, tell us about it," said Norman, coolly, but a wave of color
rushed over his face.

"O, palaver and stuff. Somebody's dreadfully ill--dying, I believe, and
that somebody is wife, or mother, or son to this brute you challenged.
He's got to go, the coward. If you are ever in his vicinity again, and
send him your card, he will understand it and meet you at such place and
with such weapons as you prefer. Bah--too thin!" and Eric concluded with
this emphatic statement.

Mae leaned her head against her two clasped hands which rested on the
mantel-piece. How strangely everything looked; even the dim fire had a
sort of aureole about it, as her eyes rested there again; but when one
looks through tears, all things are haloed mistily. Norman turned and
looked at Mae, as Eric walked impatiently about. She did not move or
speak. He walked to her side, and stood looking down at her. The faint
mist in her left eye was forming into a bright, clear globe as large as
any April raindrop. Mae knew this, and knew it would fall, unless she
put up her hand and brushed it away, and that would be worse. The color
rose to her cheeks as she waited the dreadful moment. She was perfectly
still, her hands clasped before her, her head bent, as the crystal drop
gathered all the mist and halo in its full, round embrace, and
pattered down upon the third finger of her left hand--her wedding-ring