She had not told Jemmie that. She had unjustly allowed him to suppose that the only scandal to be feared was Geoffrey's treatment of the girl. Jemmie had jumped to the commonplace conclusion, and she had been able to do no more than simulate the shocked feelings of a prude. She had been annoyed by her husband's clumsy assumption of Geoffrey's guilt, and she had found no better way to display her annoyance than by that pretense of delicacy. "One always thinks that one is going to find it easier to be better in a few years' time; but, when the few years roll by, there is always a new trap for one's self-confidence," Mary reflected. She made up her mind to be patient with Geoffrey, and went down to dinner with the intention of persuading Jemmie to be as patient as she hoped to be herself. But her good intentions were frustrated by Geoffrey's failure to appear. "Keep nothing hot for Mr. Geoffrey," his father commanded. Mary realized the extent of his wrath from this order, for nothing in life seemed more important to Jemmie than the temperature of food. Deliberately to let his son's dinner spoil was in his case almost the equivalent of open excommunication. Another sign of his anger was manifested after dinner, when, before he fell asleep in his chair, instead of reading the headlines of _The Times_, the list of killed and wounded in South Africa, and the sum of Roberts' points at billiards, he neither read nor slept; when instead he paced up and down the drawing-room, always tripping on the same head of a grizzly bear shot by himself long ago in the Rocky Mountains, always saying "damn," always begging his wife's pardon for the oath with an implication that Cæsar as well as Cæsar's wife should be above suspicion in dealing with Cæsar's son. "This is a bit too much of a good thing," he declared when the clock struck ten without Geoffrey's arrival. "A little bit too much of a good thing, by George! He's staying down at that confounded inn till closing-time. That's what he's doing, you mark my words." Half-past ten struck; but there was still no sign of Geoffrey. "If his highness thinks that he's going to keep the whole household up while he wanders about with that girl in the moonlight, he's mistaken. I'll lock him out. By George, I will." "But Jemmie, he may have had an accident." "Fiddlesticks, my dear. If he'd had an accident, we should have heard of it by now. I'll give him until eleven. If he isn't home by then, the house shall be locked against him. I'll give him a lesson. I'll frighten him this time." The clock struck eleven; but Geoffrey did not come. His father rang the bell. "Please, Jemmie," his wife expostulated. "I'd rather you didn't say too much in front of the servants." "You're weakening. You're not backing me up. You're perfectly ready to let him in. I tell you he has got to have a lesson." "But the servants...." "Bother the servants. I decline to let Geoffrey flout me, because I'm afraid of the servants."