I simply wish to get my sick wife away as speedily and as peacefully as possible, and then to forget this gentleman—and his cough. [MRS. CLOYS _goes out at the window and disappears_.] Justina; surely you—_you_—resent this new attitude of Mrs. Allingham’s? For months and months she is your sister’s bitter, determined enemy; then suddenly she is allowed to sit up all night, nursing her! JUSTINA. You wouldn’t grudge the woman her little bit of practical repentance? If ever I go in for repentance, let nobody try to do me out of it! FRASER. [_Impatiently._] Repentance——! JUSTINA. [_Sitting on the arm of a chair._] Oh, Olive Allingham didn’t have too gay a time of it last night, take my word for it. When Theo came-to, aunt tells me, her poor, overwrought brain wandered for an hour or so; that wasn’t over-pleasant for Mrs. A. Theo went through the whole business from beginning to end, breaking off occasionally to say her prayers—praying that the case might end in her favour, and that the season’s invitations would flow in as usual. Sometimes she’d stop in the middle of it, and call out that she couldn’t pray well while that creature was in the next room listening. Luckily, she fell into a heavy sleep, at about half-past two, and didn’t wake till just as I turned up in response to aunt’s telegram. But what a bad hour or two it must have been for Mrs. A.! Picture it! The half-darkened room; my little sister tossing about the bed, raving; aunt sitting grimly on one side, with a handkerchief round her head; and on the other side, hidden behind the bed-curtains, hardly daring to breathe, that woman, with her white face and her eyes almost out of their sockets! SIR FLETCHER _enters, carrying some slips of paper covered with writing_. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Allingham has had really a most admirable cold luncheon laid in the dining-room. [_To_ FRASER.] You haven’t seen the dining-room? FRASER. [_Shortly._] No. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Really a capital lunch. Evidently it is intended that one should wander in and eat a wing of a chicken when one feels inclined. JUSTINA. _You_ have been wandering, uncle, apparently. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. A glass of sherry, merely. No—it is strange and unreasonable that it should be so, but it _is_ so. JUSTINA. What is so? SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Why, one has rather a feeling of constraint in sitting down to Allingham’s table—at any rate until matters are in a more settled state. [_To_ FRASER.] _You_ wouldn’t care to—to make the plunge? FRASER. Plunge——? SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. To break the ice?