The former made an earnest effort for composure as she stood for some moments gazing out on the woods, which lay black and silver in the moonlight. Presently she turned and looked at her husband. He was leaning against the window-frame, the white background of which brought into bold relief the strength and symmetry of his figure. He was looking at her intently, with an amused smile on his lips. A horrible thought that smile suggested to Alice’s excited brain. He was laughing at her in his sleeve; he had told Geoffrey! The very idea made her giddy. “Alice, I began to think you had forgotten how to fly into a passion. I see I was mistaken.” “You were,” defiantly, measuring him from head to foot. “I was mistaken also; I thought you were a gentleman.” A momentary, almost imperceptible start, and then he replied coldly: “I thought so, too.” “But you are not.” A dead silence. “You know it is true.” “Of course,” he replied icily, “whatever you say is undeniable. Once you told me you despised and detested me; now I am no gentleman. So be it. You have no objection to smoking, as well as I can remember?” Provoked beyond all bounds by his perfect sangfroid, she said: “Shall I tell you why you are no gentleman?” “If it will not be giving you too much trouble,” carefully nursing a newly-lighted match. “Because you have told Geoffrey. You heard what he said just now?” “Told Geoffrey!” he exclaimed in much amazement. “Pray explain yourself. You are speaking in riddles, as far as I’m concerned.” “Told him about the other evening--before the races; it was too shameful. Oh, you might have spared me!” covering her face with her hands. A dead silence. At last his answer came in a cold formal voice. “If I had done what you imagine, I certainly would richly deserve to forfeit the name of gentleman. I am surprised that even you” (with scathing emphasis) “should ask me to vindicate myself from such a charge. I have not told Geoffrey--strange as it may appear to you--and am sorry that after _all_ you should have such a mean opinion of me still.” Alice removed her hands, but averted her face as she said: “You did not tell him? Then what could he mean?”--hesitatingly. “Am I responsible for Geoffrey’s random remarks?” he asked sarcastically. “No, no, of course not. Please forgive me, Reginald; I did you a great injustice!” looking at him with lovely deprecating eyes. “Do?” she pleaded. “You know very well, Alice,” he answered earnestly, “that I could forgive you anything. You have only to ask, and it is granted.” “Surely,” he thought to himself, “this is a broad hint with a vengeance.” “A mere _façon de parler_,” said Alice to herself; “a kind of Chinese compliment! Forgive anything! A likely thing, when my one fault still remains a huge unerasable blot in his eyes.” After a moment’s silence she turned towards him with a pretty little shiver. “Are you cold?” he asked formally. (Oh, why will she not seize this blessed opportunity?)