“I am, I say; and if I were not, how should it affect him that hates me so?” “Nay, you go too far.” “Indeed, he said as much--that I was distasteful to him.” “Did he say that?” She set her teeth. “And shall unsay it; or I will never speak word to him again?” “So? I’m sorry, on my word, cousin.” “Did you not quarrel with him?” “For what he did to you?” “Yes. You could not know what he’d said.” “We had words, I confess.” “About what? Is he jealous of _you_?” “What if he were, Kate?” She clenched her little left fist in wrathful glee. “Is he? I could love to believe it.” “Why?” He looked at her eagerly. “To make him suffer for me what I’ve suffered for him.” “Jealousy?” “He would not hate me then.” The face of the arch-plotter fell. “I see you love him through all,” he said sourly. “Why should I not love him?” she answered. “He is my husband.” Hamilton pulled himself together. “This faith,” he thought, with an acid thrill, “is worth converting.” “Why indeed?” said he. “Well, I don’t know if he’s jealous of me or not; but if that’s your recipe for curing him, we two might make a plausible conspiracy of it. Shall we rehearse the business now, Kate?” He put a persuasive hand on her arm. She bethought herself, and squeaked out. “You hurt me, cousin”--and she backed a little. “A play like ours is only make-believe.” “But sure,” said he, “the best actors are those who, even in rehearsal, try to realize their parts to the life.” He approached her again, offering to put his arm about her, and at that she, forgetting her injury, whipped her little fist out of its sling, and delivered him a sound box of the ear with it. “There!” she said. “Emphatically there,” he answered, holding his palm to the suffering auricle. “You cat!” She bridled like one, her eyes glittering. He pointed a derisive finger at the dangling sling. “Hadn’t you better put off that pretence?” “O!” she said, and thrust her hand again into the loop. “Now,” said he, “you may find another instrument for your purpose. I’m done with you.” Her brow puckered, and her lip went down. “You’re never going to abandon me in my trouble?” she said. She looked so bewitching so forlorn, his heart could not help softening to her. “If I do not,” he said, “it must be on softer terms than yet.” “Was my hand so hard?” she pleaded penitently. “’Tis for the lips, not the ear to decide,” said he. “Give it me, if you would hear kinder news of it.” She hung back a little, then reluctantly acquiesced. He mouthed the flushed palm, till she snatched it away. “Be good, please,” she said. “It blushes for its naughty deed,” he declared. “But it is forgiven.” “Now,” she said, “will you not be serious and give me good advice?” “That is not always palatable, you know.” “It is the way with healing drugs.” “Ah! If it might only heal!” He sighed, and shook his head, with a look of commiseration. “What do you mean?” she asked, alarmed--“that there is no cure possible?”