"Well, what is it?" said the musician, in the peace that ensued on his wife's departure; and he lighted his cigarette and looked across at Lady Joan. "How did you know there was anything?" she asked. "I always know," he said, in a superior tone; "we haven't been chums all these years for nothing. Tell me what's up, dear. Hasn't Jack been writing to you, the scamp?" "Oh, yes. He always writes. He is quite good. _I_ am the naughty one; I always have been, I think. I am not fit to be engaged; it is true what I told you--that day." They were very fond of making allusions to _that day_; they told themselves it was one of the privileges of their friendship, now that _she_ was safely engaged and _he_ was securely married, to mention subjects which were not always even respectable; it did not occur to them that this constant renewal of back chapters in their lives had more to do with their egoism than their friendship. "And what dreadful thing have you been doing now, please?" asked Digby. She flung back her head and laughed mockingly, as she used to do. "Do you remember telling me that marriage was the only way out of it? I am half inclined to agree with you now, though I wrote to Jack yesterday to break off our engagement. That is all." Sonny hummed his baby ditty on the window-seat, without interruption, for a few seconds. Then the musician laid down his cigarette. "You--did--that?" he said, drawing a long breath; "what a wonderful creature you are, Joan!" "Only wonderful?" she said lightly; "are you sure you don't mean heartless?" "Why did you do it? Do stop laughing," he urged her. Her eyes flashed angrily. "What do you mean?" she cried; "do you think I _am_ heartless?" "Surely not," said the musician, looking along his cigarette, and avoiding her direct glance across the breakfast-table. "Then why do you say I am?" "I--I didn't say so, if you remember, Joan. The word entirely originated with--" "Oh, I know," she interrupted impatiently; "but why don't you think so? You ought to--everybody does--Norah would." "Norah isn't--Norah can't understand--that is, Norah does not know you so well as I do, and she is a little prejudiced sometimes--" stumbled the musician. "Just so, yes," said Lady Joan, gravely, and there was a pause. "Then you agree with me that I have done the best thing under the circumstances, the miserable circumstances?" she began again in a few moments. "I always agree with you," said the musician; "but you must own that--not knowing the circumstances which--which led to your course of action, it--it becomes difficult--" He yielded to a nervous desire to laugh instead of finishing his sentence; and Lady Joan, after a desperate effort to lose her temper, weakly followed his example. "Tell me why you did it," he said more naturally when they were grave again, and he walked round the table and leaned over the back of her chair. She fell into the rôle of the penitent child.