"Shaken in her bad opinion, I mean, Christine dear. Yes, if ever a man did his duty, did and said all the proper things, Grantley did. And he wasn't the least angry with me; he was only annoyed with Adam and Eve, you know. Of course he was awfully busy just then: County Council elections and what not. But you'd never have guessed it. He never seemed hurried, and he was always very--very solicitous." "And now, Sibylla?" "Just the same--and quite pleased. Only I think he wishes babies were like kittens--more animated and growing up quicker, you know. We happen to have a kitten, and I think he's more at his ease with that." "Nonsense! Men are men, you know." "Most of them seem to be," admitted Sibylla. "It would be becoming," Christine observed, "if you recollected that you'd been in the wrong all through. You believed in the wrong doctor, you wanted the wrong thing, you were quite unreasonable. Hadn't you better remember that?" "I do remember it. And if you want another admission--well, Grantley never reminds me of it by a look or a word." "He's very much of a gentleman, Sibylla." "He's never the least ungentlemanlike, Christine." Christine enjoyed a distinction; she laughed gently. "And you're a very lucky woman," she went on. "Don't I say so in my prayers?" "In a very dangerous state of mind." Christine's eyes were set on her friend. Sibylla met them full and square. Her mirth, real or affected, vanished. She looked hard at Christine, and made no answer for a moment. "Yes, I suppose I know what you mean by that," she said at last. "It's so much easier to despair of your husband than of anybody else in the world--except your wife." "I try to consider him a type." "Well, don't find an exception. Oh, I'm not talking at random. I know!" She paused a moment and then went on: "There's a question I should like to ask you, but I suppose it's a question nobody ought to ask; it's too impertinent, even for me, I'm afraid." Sibylla looked at her, and a faint touch of colour rose on her cheeks. There was a little defiance about her manner, as though she were accused, and stood on her defence rather uneasily. She understood what question it was that even Christine could not ask. "Grantley and I are--perfectly good friends," she said. Christine's next question was drawled out in a lazy murmur, and was never completed, apparently from mere indolence. "It's you who----?" Sibylla nodded in an abrupt decisive fashion. "And who do you see most of?" asked Christine. The colour deepened a little on Sibylla's face. "That doesn't follow. Don't talk like that." "I've gone a great deal too far?" "I really think you have, rather, and without an atom of reason." "Oh, entirely! I apologise. That sort of thing happens to be--to be in my thoughts." Sibylla, in some anger, had risen to go. The last words arrested her movement, and she stood in the middle of the room, looking down on Christine's little figure, nestling in a big armchair.