“And why not? Are you ashamed of your husband, Fibby? It’s my belief that you are ashamed of us all, and hankering after those London people and the ramshackle life they seem to lead. Gallant times they have, to be sure! Thinking only of themselves and their pleasures and making love to each other’s wives! And you are just savage because you aren’t there, too! Oh! I know you!” Mrs. Elles had broken out into a stormy mazurka that nearly drowned Mrs. Poynder’s words, as possibly she intended it to do. “Ay! ay!” the latter remarked, “work it off that way--I advise you!” “Don’t insult me, aunt!” Mrs. Poynder laughed in her own harsh fashion, and, looking towards the door whose handles just then turned, called out, “Come in, Mortimer! Come and speak to this wife of yours!” The clumsy, thick-necked man who entered stopped short and looked round stupidly; his wife sat with her back turned, playing; his aunt stood there, smiling her cruel, blighting smile, that showed a set of the most perfectly formed teeth that money could buy. He took his cue from her, and going across the room, laid a heavy hand on his wife’s shoulder, saying kindly, “What’s the matter, old lady?” “Oh, Mortimer, please don’t call me that. I can’t bear it!” She hid her face in the keyboard and sobbed violently. “Well, really!” said he. “Hysterical!” said the aunt, still smiling. “I don’t wonder, after the conversation we have been having, and the things we have been hearing! Fibby’s had grand new London friends here--to put her out of love with us all. We’re all too plain and common for Fibby now!” Still smiling--was a smile ever so denuded of grace and benevolence?--she gathered up her crochet and left the room. Mrs. Elles then rose from the piano, and, dabbing her handkerchief to her eyes, made a step in the direction of the door. But she changed her mind and stood still by the mantelpiece with the figure half averted. “I’m sure I beg all your pardons,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “Oh, damn! where’s the paper?” said Mortimer Elles. Securing it, and sinking into an arm-chair with a great, puffing breath, he hid his face behind the broad white sheet. His coat tails caught the Oriental cloth on a small table near him and dragged it nearly off. Mrs. Elles rushed forward and saved one of the many pieces of china that rested on it from destruction. “Throw the beastly thing on the fire!” he growled out, without looking up. “This house is far too full.” A gong sounded. “I am going up to dress for dinner,” she said, aggressively, standing in front of him. “Shan’t you, Mortimer?” “There’s nobody coming, is there?” “No--unfortunately--but I like to dress.” “Dress if you like, but don’t bother me!” “Oh, I do wonder what you married me for, Mortimer?” she complained with plaintive savageness. “I do wish you wouldn’t talk nonsense!” he answered. “What has marriage to do with dressing for dinner?”