If Justin had stayed in the garden with Laura—if the curate had found it pleasanter to make a fourth at bridge than to flirt with Annabel Moulde—if Laura had been a year or two older and a decade or two wiser, old enough to diagnose Justin’s symptoms, wise enough to heal him at the right moment with the right word—if Justin had been scientifically interested rather than humanly annoyed by this new disturbing state of mind of his—then it would not have degenerated from significant _malaise_ into mere bad temper, he would not have been rude to Aunt Adela, Annabel Moulde would not have laughed, and you, Collaborator, could have been assured your happy ending. If Justin had stayed in the garden—— But Justin went into the house and that new-born garden-mood of his resented it, resented the lights and the voices, and the need for amenities. It shrank uncomfortably, ashamed of his own existence and, half in self-ignorance, half in self-defence, hardened, as I tell you, into temper, the harmless, unreasonable bad-temper to which men are always liable and with which women (who always know why they themselves are in a temper and how far they mean to go) have no sympathy whatever. Laura tried in vain to understand what had happened. She watched him anxiously, entirely bewildered, thinking—He’s cross.... Have I made him cross?... He was so different just now.... Why should he be cross?... And besides—— She was naïvely horrified, you see, that he should be in a temper when visitors were about. It upset her severe young notions of hospitality. That three-handed bridge was in full swing did not improve matters. Aunt Adela was a makeshift, but one could not turn her out. Justin cut in. Aunt Adela partnered him. Now to Aunt Adela bridge was a game. She played it in the “Ah, if you could only see my hand!” manner, with giggles, and leading questions, and audible asides. She would regularly outbid the rest of the table and explain the ensuing _débâcle_ by admitting, with modest pride, that she was afraid she had the gambling instinct. Also, she thought it showed a grasping spirit not to let her take back a card when it was obvious to every one that she had put it down by mistake. And while she chattered (she called Justin “Mr. Partner”) Gran’papa raked in the tricks with an expression of almost religious satisfaction, and Justin’s face grew so black that Mrs. Cloud glanced at him once uneasily. Her son hardly ever lost his temper, but when he did he called every one to help him look for it. Yet he was generally no more than decently morose over cards.... Had he and Laura bickered in the garden?... “Having no hearts, Miss Adela?” Justin’s voice was implacable.