“The best train in the day is at twelve fifteen,” said she. “But I was not thinking of going to-day,” I answered, frankly—perhaps even defiantly, for I was determined not to be driven out by this woman. “Oh, if it rests with you——” said she, and stopped, with a most insolent expression in her eyes. “I am sure,” I answered “that Mr. Everard King would tell me if I were outstaying my welcome.” “What’s this? What’s this?” said a voice, and there he was in the room. He had overheard my last words, and a glance at our faces had told him the rest. In an instant his chubby, cheery face set into an expression of absolute ferocity. “Might I trouble you to walk outside, Marshall,” said he. (I may mention that my own name is Marshall King.) He closed the door behind me, and then, for an instant, I heard him talking in a low voice of concentrated passion to his wife. This gross breach of hospitality had evidently hit upon his tenderest point. I am no eavesdropper, so I walked out on to the lawn. Presently I heard a hurried step behind me, and there was the lady, her face pale with excitement, and her eyes red with tears. “My husband has asked me to apologize to you, Mr. Marshall King,” said she, standing with downcast eyes before me. “Please do not say another word, Mrs. King.” Her dark eyes suddenly blazed out at me. “You fool!” she hissed, with frantic vehemence, and turning on her heel swept back to the house. The insult was so outrageous, so insufferable, that I could only stand staring after her in bewilderment. I was still there when my host joined me. He was his cheery, chubby self once more. “I hope that my wife has apologized for her foolish remarks,” said he. “Oh, yes—yes, certainly!” He put his hand through my arm and walked with me up and down the lawn. “You must not take it seriously,” said he. “It would grieve me inexpressibly if you curtailed your visit by one hour. The fact is—there is no reason why there should be any concealment between relatives—that my poor dear wife is incredibly jealous. She hates that any one—male or female—should for an instant come between us. Her ideal is a desert island and an eternal _tête-à-tête_. That gives you the clue to her actions, which are, I confess, upon this particular point, not very far removed from mania. Tell me that you will think no more of it.” “No, no; certainly not.” “Then light this cigar and come round with me and see my little menagerie.”