“Oh, come now,” he said, “that goes beyond a joke. You will not do any such absurd thing. One does not want one's domestic difficulties discussed by one's neighbours.” Betty opened coolly surprised eyes. “I did not understand it was a personal matter,” she remarked. “Where do the domestic difficulties come in?” He stared at her a few seconds with the look she did not like, which was less likeable at the moment, because it combined itself with other things. “Hang it,” he muttered. “I wish I could keep my temper as you can keep yours,” and he turned on his heel and left the room. Rosy had not spoken. She had sat with her hands in her lap, looking out of the window. She had at first had a moment of terror. She had, indeed, once uttered in her soul the abject cry: “Don't make him angry, Betty--oh, don't, don't!” And suddenly it had been stilled, and she had listened. This was because she realised that Nigel himself was listening. That made her see what she had not dared to allow herself to see before. These trite things were true. There were laws to protect one. If Betty had not been dealing with mere truths, Nigel would have stopped her. He had been supercilious, but he could not contradict her. “Betty,” she said, when her sister came to her, “you said that to show ME things, as well as to show them to him. I knew you did, and listened to every word. It was good for me to hear you.” “Clear-cut, unadorned facts are like bullets,” said Betty. “They reach home, if one's aim is good. The shiftiest people cannot evade them.” . . . . .