Patrine said in a voice jarred and harsh with anger: "Since your declared intention is to be offensive to Mrs. Saxham, whose shoes neither you nor myself, nor any woman of our set is worthy to unlace, I take back the promise, if it was ever given!" "What’s up?" Rhona turned and stared. "I say!—but you look fearfully seedy! Worried about Margot, is that it?" She was off on another tack, carried by the light shifting breeze of her imagination. "Poor little Margot!—in spite of good advice and top-hole mascots—booked for the Nursery Handicap—and out of the running for a year!" "Who told you—that?—about Margot?" "Melts—the head housemaid here—had it from Kittum’s maid Pauline, who dropped in to fetch away some stored luggage of her ladyship’s.... They’ve furnished a house at Cadogan Place—Margot and her Franky-wanky. West End enough, and quite exquie inside, but not as convee as the dear old Club. But—I believe I’m boring you." Her nimble glance left Patrine’s face, and darted in the direction of von Herrnung. "Who’s the big, good-looking, carroty man, gobbling you up with his eyes while he’s talking piffle to Cynthia and Trix? Now I remember—I _have_ heard some hints of your going over to the Common Enemy." Rhona’s sharp light eyes sparkled like polished gold-stones. "Is that the reason why you’ve bleached your hair? What a putrid shame of you! And the Enemy’s a foreigner—a German! Did he give you that gorgeous ring?" Upon the third finger of Patrine’s left hand was the magpie pearl set in platinum, gleaming to its wearer’s fevered fancy, like some malignant demon’s eye. Rhona caught the hand, and uttered a little squeak as Patrine wrenched it away. She—Patrine—was driven beyond endurance: her self-command was breaking. Her hair seemed to creep upon her tingling scalp. Down her spine and along the muscles of her thighs passed slow recurrent waves of physical anguish. She could have screamed aloud, torn her garments, set her teeth in her own flesh. But she mastered herself sufficiently to say: "I won the ring over a bet in Paris. You can see for yourself I don’t wear it on the engagement left. Do not despair of me. At this moment I do not particularly esteem women. But on the other hand, I absolutely abominate men!" "Hope for you then, politically speaking," said the misanthropic Rhona. "What, are you going?" Patrine had thrown aside her paper and risen, towering over her. She nodded without speaking, and went out of the smoking-room, crumpling the letter she had written in her strong white hand. She would not post it, she told herself as she passed through the outer lounge. She would go and look up Uncle Owen at Harley Street. She spoke a word to an agile hall-boy in the vestibule and he skipped out, and signalled a taxi-cab.