Here he trod upon a collar-stud, screamed, swore, limped to a window and then launched the offender into Berkeley Square. “That’ll learn it,” observed Mrs. Festival. Giles regarded her with speechless indignation. Then he swept into the bathroom stormily. After, perhaps, five minutes he reappeared. “I say,” he said quietly, “it isn’t much good going on like this, is it?” Katharine shrugged her white shoulders. “Is it?” repeated her husband. His wife averted her head. “The blessed answer,” she said, “is in the blessed negative.” Giles set his teeth. “Good. Well, let’s separate. I take it you’ve tried. I know I have. I suppose we oughtn’t to have married.” “As—as you please,” said Katharine slowly. “We’d better go down and see Forsyth—to-day, if we can.” He hesitated. Then, “There’s no reason why there should be any unpleasantness about it.” “None whatever.” “Only, don’t let’s be lured into backing out of it. It’s perfectly manifest, to my mind, that it’s the only thing to do. Already we’ve come to the brink of it half a dozen times, and then Sentiment’s always chipped in and pulled us back.” Katharine nodded. “Well, that’s silly. We needn’t scrap, but _don’t let’s be pulled back again_. It’s—it’s not good enough. Let’s go through with it, this time, and—and see what happens.” “Right,” said Katharine brightly. Giles turned away slowly. In the doorway he hesitated. Then he spoke, looking down. “You—you see what I mean?” he faltered. “I’ld like us to—to part friends.” Katharine nodded. When he was out of sight, she buried her face in her pillow and lay like the dead. * * * * * If the votes of Mayfair had been taken to elect the most popular married couple living, moving and having its being in Society, there is little doubt that Captain and Mrs. Giles Festival would have headed the poll. The lady was twenty-five and of great beauty. She was very fair, and the light in her grave, blue eyes was a lovely thing. Her face might have been her fortune—easily. So might her figure. This was the dressmakers’ joy. If Katharine liked fine feathers, she knew how to put them on. Dancing, bathing, riding—always she filled the eye. But if she was refreshing to look at, her fellowship lifted up the heart. I can think of no company which she did not adorn. Someone once called her ‘Champagne’: certainly she went to the head. That she had so few enemies is the best evidence of her remarkable charm. Women liked her—as often as not against their will. Her nature would, I think, have disarmed a Sycorax. Caliban would certainly have eaten out of her hand.