And we left our nervous ogre and our poor little elf to fight out between themselves whatever battle they had to fight. Perhaps it was cold-blooded cruelty on our part. But these two had to come to mutual understanding sooner or later. Why not at once? They had the afternoon before them. It was pouring with rain. They had nothing else to do. In order that they should be undisturbed, Barbara had given orders that we were not at home to visitors. Besides, we were actuated by motives not entirely altruistic. If I seem to have posed before you as a noble-minded philanthropist, I have been guilty of careless misrepresentation. At the best I am but a not unkindly, easy-going man who loathes being worried. And I (and Barbara even more than myself) had been greatly worried over our friends' affairs for a considerable period. We therefore thought that the sooner we were freed from these worries the better for us both. Deliberately we hardened our hearts against their joint appeal and left them together in the drawing-room. "Whew!" said I, as we walked along the corridor. "What's going to happen?" "She'll marry him, of course." "She won't," said I. "She will. My dear Hilary, they always do." "If I have any knowledge of feminine character," said I, "that young woman harbours in her soul a bitter resentment against Jaffery." "If," she said. "But you haven't." "All right," said I. "All right," said Barbara. We paused at the library door. "What," I asked, "is going to become of Liosha?" Barbara sighed. "We're not out of this wood yet." "And with Liosha on our hands, I don't think we ever shall be." "I should like to shake Jaffery," said Barbara. "And I should like," said I, "to kick him." CHAPTER XXV