"Are you?" he said. "I like you, anyhow. Go on." Maud gave a long sigh. "You don't do her justice," she said, "any more than she does you justice. You don't allow for each other. And--Thurso, I don't believe she is happy any more than you are." "Why do you think that? She carves forty-eight hours out of every day, and fills them all, while the world looks on in envious admiration. That is her ideal, and she always attains it. And even her husband claps his hands." Maud took him by the shoulders and shook him gently. "Idiot!" she said--"dreadful idiot! Shut up! I am going to bed. Thank me for catching so many beautiful fish." "I am not sure that I thank you for asking Mr. Cochrane to dinner to-morrow," he said. "I love these quiet evenings with you." "Thanks, dear. I get on tolerably, too. Good night. What a nice day it has been, and what nice things we've got to think about to send us to sleep! No fresh case of typhoid to-day for the people, and no headache for you, and a salmon for me. I am so sleepy that I don't mind going to bed." "Maud," he began, then stopped. No, he could not tell her. In himself he was ashamed of having taken laudanum, and was ashamed, also, of having deceived her, for he saw he had done that. Since, then, he was ashamed of it, there was no need that she should know. "Well?" "No, it's nothing." "Thurso, your manners are atrocious!" she said. "Both yesterday and to-day you have begun to say something, and then stopped. I shall keep doing that all to-morrow, and you will see how maddening it is." He laughed again. "Good night, dear old boy," said she. * * * * *