Miss Crail was a lady, and ladies had an aversion to figuring in scenes. Indeed, to avoid a scene they would endure almost anything. . . . Labotte licked his lips. If he approached her privately, he would be told to go away. Very well. Supposing he approached her publicly—short of a scene, she would have to submit to his approach. More. If he addressed her, sat by her side, made loud, innocent conversation—no one would see anything inconsistent with courtesy in that. Everybody would think that he was dancing attendance. But he and she would know that she was being whipped. . . . Susan’s luck was clean out. Five times in three days he contrived to sit next to her at meat: twice he had managed to be driven in the same car: seven times he had asked her to dance. She had not done so, but it was not too pleasant—this pestering. Labotte’s attentions would have been odious at any time: now they were nothing less than a direct insult. When upon the third day at dinner he steered the conversation to the points of a ‘naize leedle ’orse,’ mentioned nice clean legs, a soft mouth and well-rounded quarters as essential features and then asked Susan if she did not agree, the latter felt cold with rage. Most of the women saw there was something amiss and, reluctantly respecting Susan, were faintly amused. The more quick-witted of the men began to smell trouble. The jolly-eyed Frenchman looked very hard at Labotte: the Spaniard had frowned and lost the thread of his discourse: the tall Italian had stared and then asked Susan to dance. But that was all. The way of a man with a maid had to be patently outrageous to warrant intervention. . . . Deep in a shadowy corner of the _salon vert_ Susan was contemplating her state and wondering, if she fled, how far four hundred and fifty francs would go. Six feet away two Englishmen were talking. For a moment or two she listened idly, too much depressed to care at all for their words. Then her brain leapt. “Sponge knows who he is.” “He would”—contemptuously. “He didn’t go so far as to claim his acquaintance, but he says he’s Kilmuir of Kilsay. He added that he knew his wife intimately—spoke of her as ‘Kitty Kilmuir.’” “And I bet if she came here she wouldn’t know him. What a sweep the man is!” The two moved away, and the voices faded. _His wife. . . . Kitty Kilmuir._ Wondering why she had assumed that Nicholas John Kilmuir was unmarried, halting curiously between relief and dismay, Susan started to her feet. . . . Then she sank down again and stared at the floor.