Mrs. Duchemin cried out: "Oh!" Fragments of the worst stories that in his worst moods her husband had told her of his old preceptor went through her mind. She imagined that the shameful parts of her intimate life must be known to this nebulous monster. For Tietjens, turned sideways and facing her, had seemed to grow monstrous, with undefined outlines. He was the male, threatening, clumsily odious and external! She felt herself say to herself: "I will do you an injury, if ever----" For already she had felt herself swaying the preferences, the thoughts and the future of the man on her other side. He was the male, tender, in-fitting; the complement of the harmony, the meat for consumption, like the sweet pulp of figs. . . . It was inevitable; it was essential to the nature of her relationship with her husband that Mrs. Duchemin should have these feelings. . . . She heard, almost without emotion, so great was her disturbance, from behind her back the dreaded, high, rasping tones: "_Post coitum tristis_! Ha! Ha! That's what it is?" The voice repeated the words and added sardonically: "You know what _that_ means?" But the problem of her husband had become secondary; the real problem was: "What was this monstrous and hateful man going to say of her to his friend, when, for long hours, they were away?" He was still gazing into her eyes. He said nonchalantly, rather low: "I wouldn't look round if I were you. Vincent Macmaster is quite up to dealing with the situation." His voice had the familiarity of an elder brother's. And at once Mrs. Duchemin knew--that _he_ knew that already close ties were developing between herself and Macmaster. He was speaking as a man speaks in emergencies to the mistress of his dearest friend. He was then one of those formidable and to be feared males who possess the gift of right intuitions. . . . Tietjens said: "You heard!" To the gloating, cruel tones that had asked: "You know what that means?" Macmaster had answered clearly, but with the snappy intonation of a reproving Don: "Of course I know what it means. It's no discovery!" That was exactly the right note. Tietjens--and Mrs. Duchemin too--could hear Mr. Duchemin, invisible behind his rampart of blue spikes and silver, give the answering snuffle of a reproved schoolboy. A hard-faced, small man, in grey tweed that buttoned, collar-like, tight round his throat, standing behind the invisible chair, gazed straight forward into infinity. Tietjens said to himself: "By God! Parry! the Bermondsey light middle-weight! He's there to carry Duchemin off if he becomes violent!" During the quick look that Tietjens took round the table Mrs. Duchemin gave, sinking lower in her chair, a short gasp of utter relief. Whatever Macmaster was going to think of her, he thought now. He knew the worst! It was settled, for good or ill. In a minute she would look round at him. Tietjens said: