She had interrupted him in the middle of what he was pleased to call his reply; for Hatchett's first shell had already fallen in the camp. He stood back and offered her the seat at the _duftar_ table. Her elbow left a great wet stain on the baize, for she was soaked through and through. "Say exactly how the matter stands," she said, and laughed a weak little laugh, which emboldened Trewinnard to say loftily: "Pardon me, Mrs. Mallowe, but I hardly recognise your----" "Idiot! Will you show me the papers, will you speak, and _will_ you be quick?" Her most reverent admirers would hardly have recognised the soft-spoken, slow-gestured, quiet-eyed Mrs. Mallowe in the indignant woman who was drumming on Trewinnard's desk. He submitted to the voice of authority, as he had submitted in the old times, and explained as quickly as might be the cause of the war between the two Departments. In conclusion he handed over the rough sheets of his reply. As she read he watched her with the expectant sickly half-smile of the unaccustomed writer who is doubtful of the success of his work. And another smile followed, but died away as he saw Mrs. Mallowe read his production. All the old phrases out of which she had so carefully drilled him had returned; the unpruned fluency of diction was there, the more luxuriant for being so long cut back; the reckless riotousness of assertion that sacrificed all--even the vital truth that Hatchett would be so sure to take advantage of--for the sake of scoring a point, was there; and through and between every line ran the weak, wilful vanity of the man. Mrs. Mallowe's mouth hardened. "And you wrote this!" she said. Then to herself: "_He_ wrote this!" Trewinnard stepped forward with a gesture habitual to him when he wished to explain. Mrs. Reiver had never asked for explanations. She had told him that all his ways were perfect. Therefore he loved her. Mrs. Mallowe tore up the papers one by one, saying as she did so: "_You_ were going to cross swords with Hatchett. Do you know your own strength? Oh, Harold, Harold, it is _too_ pitiable! I thought--I thought----" Then the great anger that had been growing in her broke out, and she cried: "Oh, you fool! You blind, blind, _blind_, trumpery fool! Why do I help you? Why do I have anything to do with you? You miserable man! Sit down and write as I dictate. Quickly! And I had chosen _you_ out of a hundred other _men_! Write!" It is a terrible thing to be found out by a mere unseeing male--Thackeray has said it. It is worse, far worse, to be found out by a woman, and in that hour after long years to discover her worth. For ten minutes Trewinnard's pen scratched across the paper, and Mrs. Mallowe spoke. "And that is all," she said bitterly. "As you value yourself--your noble, honourable, modest self--keep within that." But that was not all--by any means. At least as far as Trewinnard was concerned.