two different places. In the dead of pale Southern nights, with the
shine of the moon on his wife's lovely sleeping face; in the hot,
brilliant noontide; in the sweet, green gloaming--Inez Catheron's
black eyes came menacingly before him--the one bitter drop in his cup.
All his life he had been a little afraid of her. He was something more
than a little afraid of her now.

They returned. The commodious lodgings in Russell Square awaited him,
and Sir Victor "went in" for domestic felicity in the parish of
Bloomsbury, "on the quiet." Very much "on the quiet" no theatre going,
no opera, no visitors, and big Captain Jack Erroll, of the Second
Grenadiers, his only guest. Four months of this sort of thing, and
then--and then there was a son.

Lying in her lace-draped, satin-covered bed, looking at baby's fat
little, funny little face, Ethel, Lady Catheron, began to think. She
had time to think in her quiet and solitude. Monthly nurses and
husbands being in the very nature of things antagonistic, and nurse
being reigning potentate at present, the husband was banished. And
Lady Catheron grew hot and indignant that the heir of Catheron Royals
should have to be born in London lodgings, and the mistress of
Catheron Royals live shut up like a nun, or a fair Rosamond in a bower.

"You have no relations living but your cousin, Victor," she said to
him, more coldly than she had ever spoken in her life. "Are you master
in your own house, or is she? Are you afraid of this Miss Catheron,
who writes you such long letters (which I never see), that you dare
not take your wife home?"

He had told her something of that other story necessarily--his former