"Of course I am. What d'you mean? I'm not the sort to er--er--" Cassandra turned her head over her shoulder and flung him a challenging glance, her blue eyes bright with defiance. "Then you had better understand, Bernard, once for all, that--I am not sure of myself! I'm not at all sure that I love _you_!" She had said it. The words rang like a clarion call through the silent room. After years of self-deception, and careful covering up, a moment's impulse had laid bare the skeleton. It stood between them, a naked horror, grinning with fleshless lips. Cassandra saw it and shuddered at the sight, but it was too late to draw back. She caught her breath, and sat tremblingly waiting for what should come. What came was a burst of hearty, good-natured laughter. Bernard's eyes twinkled, his white teeth gleamed. He stretched out a freckled hand and laid it on his wife's arm. "That's all right, old girl! Don't you worry about that. You're fond of me all right, and a rattling good wife. We've been married a dozen years, and never had a row. If all couples got along as well as we do, things would be a sight better. What's the use of bothering about love at this time of day. I'm not a sentimental fellow. I'm satisfied with things as they are. So are you too, as a rule. Got a fit of the blues, that's all!--I say, Cass, Peignton's coming to tea, and I met that girl of the Mallison's,--Teresa, isn't it?--and asked her to come along too, and make up a game afterwards. She plays a good hand, and Peignton's engaged to her they say, or going to be. So we will do them a good turn, as well as ourselves." Cassandra rose slowly, straightening her shoulders as if throwing off a weight. Standing there her head was on a level with her husband's, and for a moment their eyes met, his calm and unperturbed, hers sparkling and defiant. She had spoken. He had heard the truth, and had laughed at her for her pains. Now let the Fates bring what they might. He had been warned... "Very well, Bernard. I'll have tea early. Shall I order the car to take her home?" "Er--no. They'll send. Pony cart or some contraption of the kind. Peignton'll look after her all right." He chuckled, aroused to interest in a prospective romance, though his own had faded. He turned, softly whistling, and fumbled in the bureau, while Cassandra beat a retreat to her own room.