He turned as if a blow had struck him, and looked at her. Her eyes met his unflinchingly, colder than her words, withering with resentment and contempt. Mrs. Ascott-Smith opened her cards again and began to count: “Tierce to the king and a point of five,” she muttered vaguely. Her mind and the side glance of her eyes were upon the girl and the young man. What did it mean? “A point of five,” she repeated. Mr. Carteret hesitated a moment; he feared to trust his voice. Then he gathered himself and bowed to Mrs. Ascott-Smith. “I have people coming to tea; I must be off. Good night.” His impulse was to pass the girl with the formality of a bow, but he checked it. With an effort he stopped. “Good night,” he said and put out his hand. Her eyes met his without a glimmer of expression. She was looking through him into nothing. His hand dropped to his side. His face grew white. He went on and out. As the door closed behind him he heard Mrs. Ascott-Smith counting for the third time, “Tierce to the king, and a point of five.” He reached his house. In his own hallway he was giving orders that he was not at home when he felt the cold nose and the one little lick, and looking down, he saw the sad eyes fixed upon his. He went down the passageway to the smoking-room, and the patter of following feet was at his heels. He closed the door, dropped into a chair, gave a nod of assent, and Penwiper jumped into his arms. When he could think, he constructed many explanations for the mystery of her behavior, and dismissed them successively because they did not explain. Why she should resent so bitterly his having brought her home was inexplicable on any other ground than that she was still out of her head. He would insist upon an explanation, but, after all, what difference could it make? Whatever reason there might be, the important fact was that she had acted as she had. That was the only fact which mattered. Her greeting of him when she first opened her eyes, the drive home, the parting in the hallway, were all things that had never happened for her. For him they were only dreams. He must force them out into the dim region of forgotten things. On the next Tuesday he saw her at the meet--came upon her squarely, so that there was no escaping. She was pale and sick-looking, and was driving herself in a pony trap. He lifted his hat, but she turned away. After he had ridden by, he turned back and, stopping just behind her, slipped off his horse. “Sally,” he said, “I want to speak to you.” She looked around with a start. “I should prefer not,” she answered. “You must,” he said. “I have a right--” “Do you talk to me about your right?” she said. Her gray eyes flashed. He met her anger steadily. “I do,” he replied. “You can’t treat me in this way.” “How else do you deserve to be treated?” she demanded fiercely. “What do you mean?” he said. “You know what I mean,” she retorted. “You know what you did.” “What I did!” he exclaimed. “What have I done?”