What, in the name of God, had got into her? He grew increasingly irritated at her arbitrary manner. Lee had kept forgetting that, where Fanny was concerned, it was causeless, or no better than a wild surmise, a chance thrust at random. He made up his mind that he wouldn't submit to a great deal of her bad humor. And, in this spirit, he ignored a query put to him bitingly: “Where is the paper cutter?” His gaze remained level on the page before him. “Didn't you hear me, Lee? I want the paper cutter. If it's on your night table, get it.” “Let Amanda go up.” “She's out. I let both the girls go tonight. But I needn't explain.” She sat expectantly upright. Obliterating his cigarette, he returned, without moving, to the magazine. Then he raised his head: “You can't hope for much from that tone of voice.” “I'll always insist on your showing me some courtesy. I can't imagine what you think I am. You lie to me as though I were a school-girl and you haven't even common good manners. That trip to New York--I'll hear the truth about it. Anyone could tell it was serious by the effect it had on you. Put down your magazine, you might as well; you can't keep on behind it forever. Why did you try to hide that Mrs. Grove and you were alone?” “To stop all this!” He dropped the magazine upon the floor. “To save my nerves and the noise of your eternal questions. I knew, if you found out, what would follow; this isn't the first time.” “You can't be completely trusted,” she replied. “I have always had to worry and hold you up. If it hadn't been for me--but there is no use in going into that. You must tell me about the Grove woman.” “At one time it was Mrs. Grove,” he observed; “now it is 'the Grove woman.' What will you call her next?” “You will have to tell me that,” Fanny said. “Lee Randon, what must I call her?” “Perhaps, if you knew her, you'd try Savina.” “Not if it was to save me from dying. But I have no doubt of which you preferred. Did you?” “Did I what?” He was aware that his speech was growing far louder than necessary. “Call her Savina.” “Yes!” He sat glaring at her in an anger which he felt swelling his neck. Fanny's expression was obscure. At his admission she had shivered, as though it had reached her in the form of an actually threatened violence, and then she was rigid. “I knew that, all the while.” Her voice was low, with a pause between the words. “Savina”; she repeated the name experimentally. “Very pretty. Prettier to say than Fanny; yes, and newer. And, having called her that, you couldn't very well not kiss her, could you?” However, his caution had again asserted itself over the dangers of a lost temper. “You have made so much of this up that you had better finish it yourself. Put what end you prefer on it; you don't need help.” “The end,” she echoed, in a strange and smothered voice. “Is this it? But not yet.”