‘Mr. Geoffrey Arbuthnot, on the score of ugliness, will meet your wishes, my dear. A rough-hewn Scotchman of the Carlyle stamp. A man who looks as though he ought to do big things in the world. A man with a scar--got, I am told, in a Quixotic pavement fight--traversing his forehead.’ ‘I like the sketch. Proceed.’ ‘As regards Geoffrey Arbuthnot himself I have done. Walking at his side, the evening light falling on her uncovered head and fair face, was the loveliest sight these old eyes have beheld for many a year--Geoffrey Arbuthnot’s wife.’ ‘Geoffrey Arbuthnot--has he a wife?’ cried Marjorie in an altered voice. ‘My Cambridge B.A.--married! I hope you are sure of your facts, Miss Tighe. You know that sometimes--rarely, of course--mistakes occur in our little bits of Sarnian intelligence. You are perfectly certain that Mr. Geoffrey Arbuthnot is a married man?’ ‘I have seen his wife. How can you ask me if I am certain? “A daughter of the gods,”’ Cassandra quoted, “divinely tall,” fair-skinned, large-eyed, with a look of repressed sadness about her mouth that makes her bloom and youth the more noticeable. I was sitting in poor Mrs. Miller’s parlour, endeavouring to argue the woman out of taking Doctor Thorne’s drugs. As a human creature, a father, a husband, I have not one word to say against Doctor Thorne----’ ‘I have!’ exclaimed Marjorie Bartrand imperatively. ‘As a human creature, a father, a husband--most especially as a husband--I have everything imaginable to say against Doctor Thorne.’ ‘As a physician I consider him a man-slaughterer. Yes,’ repeated Cassandra, with pious warmth, ‘a man-slaughterer. Indeed, if I had sat at the inquest on more than one of Doctor Thorne’s departed patients, Heaven knows what verdict I should not have returned against him.’ ‘But your story, Miss Tighe? The man like Carlyle; the beautiful wife. Return, please, to the Arbuthnots.’ ‘Well, just as I was trying to put reason into Mrs. Miller’s weak mind, I was startled by the sight I told you of. This lovely young woman went past the window, not two yards from where I sat.’ ‘With her husband. Was she leaning on Mr. Arbuthnot’s arm?’ asked Marjorie. ‘Did they look as if they had ever had a quarrel? Was she in white--bridal looking? Did you hear them murmur to each other? Miss Tighe, be dramatic! At Tintajeux we have not the joy, remember, of eventful living.’ ‘Mrs. Arbuthnot was dressed in black. Her hair lay in short blonde waves on her forehead. She wore not a flower, not an ornament about her person. As they passed the window her husband remarked that he considered the roast duck and peas of which they had partaken for dinner were excellent.’ ‘So much,’ said Marjorie, affecting cynicism, ‘for a chapter of married romance.’