"The whisky is on the table behind you," returned Carruthers, unmoved. "As for bearing you out in the lie, how do I know it is one? It isn't to be credited that every man who poses as a bachelor is single." "If you are going to talk in that strain," Mrs Carruthers observed, "I'm going to bed. It is past two." She paused beside her husband, and pointed at Dare with a gesture that conveyed a mixture of derision and tolerant amusement and a certain affectionate malice. "He has been treating me to a resuscitation of his dead and gone love affairs," she explained, "because I am desirous of interesting him in Blanche Maitland." "Blanche Maitland! Why not?" quoth Carruthers, squirting soda-water into a glass. "Devilish fine girl. What!" Dare held the door open for Mrs Carruthers. "You've entrusted it to quite capable hands, you see," he said. "The worst of it is, old Dick is so hopelessly frank. That is exactly how a man would describe her, and that is exactly how I wouldn't choose to have my wife described. You'll have to try again, Connie." She placed her hand affectionately on his sleeve. "You are rather a dear, George," she said softly, and passed out, leaving the astonished man to close the door behind her. It took a clever woman to accept defeat gracefully, he reflected. CHAPTER TEN. The week Dare had promised himself at Wynberg overlapped and ran into the better part of three weeks. He gave as his reason for this extension of his holiday that he was enjoying himself, and that he felt he needed the rest. "I suppose it is restful," Mrs Carruthers remarked to him once, "mooning about the Arnott's garden all day. Of course it is more of a change for you than using this garden... You do sleep here." He looked at her oddly. They were standing on the stoep together. He was just about to visit next door to take Mrs Arnott a book he had promised her. He had explained all this to Mrs Carruthers rather elaborately, and had failed to meet her steady, disconcerting gaze with his usual candour. These daily explanations of his informal visits next door called for much ingenuity, and were growing increasingly embarrassing. He disliked having to account for his doings; at the same time courtesy to his hostess demanded something; he rather fancied that it demanded more than it received. "I admit the justice of that box on the ears," he said. He held the book towards her. "We dine there to-night, I know; but I promised her she should have this this afternoon. Perhaps you wouldn't mind sending it in with my compliments," he suggested. "Pamela would be disappointed," she said. "I believe she would," he agreed. "George," she looked at him very gravely, and her tone was admonishing, "I don't wish to annoy you,--but do you think you are acting wisely?" "You couldn't annoy me," he answered. "And I haven't considered the question in that light... What do you think?"