"Cassandra knows nothing about housekeeping, and if she did I'm not going to give it up, just as there's a chance of getting a little credit. I'm getting quite a daisy at it now. Guess what you're going to have to-night? _Best end of the neck_! Cook suggested it, and I said, `_Whose_ neck?' She looked quite scared. Martin, did you know you had chops growing inside your neck? Isn't it thrilling?... I'm going to kiss you on the best end of your neck!" She rose, and put her threat into execution, then sauntered over to an easy chair, and lit a cigarette. "Of course, when you talk so sweetly about my talks with Cassandra, I know you are inwardly gloating on golf. You throw Cassandra to me as a sop, so that you may feel free, and have no scruples in leaving me day after day. Never mind! retribution will be yours. Poor angel! _how_ tired you will get of hours and hours of undiluted Squire..." "I'm not so sure; he is a type, and I'm interested in types, and from the golfer's point of view, an approximate handicap covers a multitude of sins. And I don't propose to confine myself to Raynor. I asked Peignton to come down, and he was delighted." Grizel frowned thoughtfully. "I like Captain Peignton. It's noble of me, for he has never quite made up his mind to like me, but I'm not altogether sure that you were wise to ask him this time." "For Heaven's sake why not?" Martin's bewilderment was transparent. Grizel dropped her eyes, and played with her cigarette. A suspicious listener might have accused her of searching for a judicious reply. "Well!--he's engaged. And I don't want her. She would be in the way." "Is it necessary to ask her at all?" "If he comes, yes. I think we ought." Martin looked thoughtful in his turn. It was evident that, like his wife, he was not anxious for the society of Teresa Mallison, but after a moment's consideration he was ready with a solution. "We'll ask her from Friday till Monday, at the end of his stay. Then they can travel home together. She will understand that he is asked primarily for golf. What on earth makes you imagine that he doesn't like you?" Grizel pursed her lips. "I think... _he_ thinks, I have more than my share!" "Of--what?" "Happiness." Martin's face softened eloquently. "So you have, darling. So you always will have. But that's thanks to yourself. And why should he grudge you your happiness, pray? Isn't he happy himself? Isn't his Teresa happy?" "Oh, yes. Teresa is as happy as Teresa can be." "Well, then!" exclaimed Martin conclusively, and dropped the subject. He had wisely abandoned the effort of following his wife's nights of thought, and was for the moment more engrossed with his own. He glanced at the clock, and there fell over his face that restless, straining expression which Grizel had learned to recognise as a sign that work in the study was not going well. Being a wife she dared a question which from anyone else would have been an offence.