Dinah was well dowered by Nature with means of self-defence. She could put down an impertinence--I am afraid could resent an injury, as well as any fine London lady of them all. But in Dinah’s moral arsenal was no weapon for demolishing a mild little prosy gentleman of sixty-seven, with snow-white moustache, yellow shoes, and a tired smile. Some intuition she could not have analysed made her almost feel a species of pity for Linda’s husband. We do not easily experience two distinct kinds of pain at one moment. It may be that Dinah’s heart was too sorely troubled for her to be sensible of boredom, even at the hands of such a master in the art of boring as the Doctor. ‘That morsel of table-land in the south is Sark,’ observed Linda, pointing to an outline of haze faintly towering above the dense blue of the Channel. ‘And the streak nearer at hand--please don’t look at me, but at the islands--the streak nearer at hand, with the sun shining on its yellow patches, is Jetho; and nearer still, where the pale green spaces mark the shallows, is Herm. I hope you are following my stage directions, Mr. Arbuthnot.’ Mr. Arbuthnot was scrutinising her face; curiously, as one scrutinises any waif or stray from the past suddenly brought back to one; but tenderly, too. When does a man of Gaston’s character feel aught but kindness towards the woman whose life has been a little embittered by his own fascination? The kindness made itself felt in his voice and look when he answered her: ‘Almost the last time you and I saw each other we followed stage directions side by side. Have you forgotten those New Year charades of Madame Benjamin’s?’ ‘I have forgotten nothing,’ exclaimed Mrs. Thorne, with a sharpish accent. ‘I have remembered you, Mr. Arbuthnot; I have thought of you, hoped for your happiness all these years. Now, at length, I am called upon to witness it.’ She gave a glance at Dinah, patiently enduring the Doctor’s statistics, then went on with a sort of effort: ‘You must let me congratulate you. I am blunt, matter-of-fact--just as I used to be.’ Certainly Linda Thorne was at no pains to modulate her voice. ‘Mrs. Arbuthnot is simply beautiful. Those matchless lines of profile! Those soft waves of gold above her brow!’ ‘You like that way she has with her curls? I am answerable for it. It took exactly fifteen months to convince Dinah that a woman may wear short hair upon her forehead, yet save her soul alive.’ ‘And the lips, the chin! I believe Mrs. Arbuthnot’s face is the first I have ever seen without a flaw.’ Linda spoke as one might speak of a shell cameo, of a china vase, of a lily modelled in wax. Gaston Arbuthnot mentally translated the chill distinct tone, with edification to himself.