"Madam is so poetical," Henson murmured. "And charmingly sanguine."

"Williams," Mrs. Henson said, quite stoically, "my visitor will have some
champagne."

She seemed to have dropped once again into the commonplace, painfully
exact as a hostess of breeding must be to an unwelcome guest. And yet she
never seemed to see him; those dark eyes were looking, ever looking, into
the dark future. The meal proceeded in silence save for an oily sarcasm
from Henson. In the dense stillness the occasional howl of a dog could be
heard. A slight flush of annoyance crossed Henson's broad face.

"Some day I shall poison all those hounds," he said.

Enid looked up at him swiftly.

"If _all_ the hounds round Longdean were poisoned or shot it would be a
good place to live in," she said.

Henson smiled caressingly, like Petruchio might have done in his
milder moments.

"My dear Enid, you misjudge me," he said. "But I shall get justice
some day."

Enid replied that she fervently hoped so, and thus the strange meal
proceeded with smiles and gentle words from Henson, and a wild outburst
of bitterness from the girl. So far as she was concerned the servants
might have been mere automatons. The dust rose in clouds as the latter
moved silently. It was hot in there, and gradually the brown powder