"Has she--quarrelled with you, George?" At the sound of his Christian name from the wife's lips he looked round at the sleeping husband. He was quite sure that Mr. Houghton would not like to hear his wife call him George. "He sleeps like a church," said Mrs. Houghton, in a low voice. The two were sitting close together and Mr. Houghton's arm-chair was at a considerable distance. The occasional knocking of the balls, and the continued sound of voices was to be heard from the other room. "If you have separated from her I think you ought to tell me." "I saw her to-day as I came through." "But she does not go to Manor Cross?" "She has been at the deanery since she went down." Of course this woman knew of the quarrel which had taken place in London. Of course she had been aware that Lady George had stayed behind in opposition to her husband's wishes. Of course she had learned every detail as to the Kappa-kappa. She took it for granted that Mary was in love with Jack De Baron, and thought it quite natural that she should be so. "She never understood you as I should have done, George," whispered the lady. Lord George again looked at the sleeping man, who grunted and moved, "He would hardly hear a pistol go off." "Shouldn't I?" said the sleeping man, rubbing away the flies from his nose. Lord George wished himself back at his club. "Come out into the balcony," said Mrs. Houghton. She led the way and he was obliged to follow her. There was a balcony to this house surrounded with full-grown shrubs, so that they who stood there could hardly be seen from the road below. "He never knows what any one is saying." As she spoke she came close up to her visitor. "At any rate he has the merit of never troubling me or himself by any jealousies." "I should be very sorry to give him cause," said Lord George. "What's that you say?" Poor Lord George had simply been awkward, having intended no severity. "Have you given him no cause?" "I meant that I should be sorry to trouble him." "Ah--h! That is a different thing. If husbands would only be complaisant, how much nicer it would be for everybody." Then there was a pause. "You do love me, George?" There was a beautiful moon that was bright through the green foliage, and there was a smell of sweet exotics, and the garden of the Square was mysteriously pretty as it lay below them in the moonlight. He stood silent, making no immediate answer to this appeal. He was in truth plucking up his courage for a great effort. "Say that you love me. After all that is passed you must love me." Still he was silent. "George, will you not speak?" "Yes; I will speak." "Well, sir!" "I do not love you." "What! But you are laughing at me. You have some scheme or some plot going on." "I have nothing going on. It is better to say it. I love my wife."