"Not half so much of a thing as it is to be a man. A man is a miracle of suspicion and trust, of belief and incredulity. Don't you believe me, you angry old Rodney?" she asked, with another touch on his arm, and a swift, sweet modulation of voice. "Yes," he answered, grimly; "I believe everything you tell me." "Oh, no, you mustn't do that, for soon you'll be blaming me for deceiving you. But we're getting off the subject,--Mr. Meramble. He likes to make you jealous. It is kind of exciting, you know, to suspect that some one is behind a door, or somewhere, fuming and biting his nails down to the quick; you've noticed that jealous people always bite their nails to the quick, haven't you?" "I can't say I have." "Well, they do; I suppose they enjoy it. Now about Mr. Meramble; have you anything special against him, Rodney dear?" "Yes." "What?" "Do you want it in plain words?" "Oh, dear, yes. I'm not afraid of plain words; and really I'm getting interested in him." "Are you? The plain words are that he is a gambler and a seducer of women." "Oh! And perhaps he smokes, too?" The words left the smiling lips with a flippancy that seemed to Rodney nothing less than atrocious. And yet he could not help hoping that she was saying them only to shock him. He had often thought of late that she liked to shock him; he could not understand such amusement, however. "We won't talk any more here in public on this subject," Lawrence said, when he believed he could speak in his ordinary tone; "if we wish to exhaust the topic, let us go back to the hotel." "Very well; and perhaps you'll have me whipped if I don't agree with you. I heard of a man the other day who said it was only cowardice on his part that he didn't whip his wife." To this remark Lawrence made no reply. The two were walking now towards the Ponce. Unconsciously Lawrence hastened his steps. When the door had closed upon them in their own apartments, Prudence suddenly turned to her husband, flung her arms about his neck, and pressed her head against his breast. She sobbed; she clung to him as if she could never let him go; and when he sat down with her held close in his arms, she lifted her tear-wet face, put a hand under his chin, and held his face away while she looked long and tenderly into his eyes. How could he have been so angry? How could he ever forget for a moment the look he saw on her face now? These were the questions he was asking himself, while his heart beat with the old rapture, the old intensity of joy in her presence. "You ought not to be cruel to me," she murmured, after awhile. Then, with a long, quivering breath, her head sank on his shoulder, and the two sat silent. At last Lawrence became aware that his wife had fallen asleep. He looked down at her with inexpressible tenderness. He lightly kissed her forehead. He was already telling himself that he had been harsh, brutal. Was she never to speak to any one save him?