“Phyl will see you in the drawing-room; you know your way; but mind this—” The man thrust back his pride and listened to her hectoring with a submissive calm. “Well?” “I shall wait in the gallery; if you try any blackguardism, my buck, I’ll have our men up pretty briskly. I shall give them the tip to kick you out of the front door. See?” Gabriel, white to the lips, bowed to her like an antique aristocrat and desired her to lead on. “Even a lord’s daughter is not infallible,” he said. “March,” was her retort. “I wait for you.” Man and wife were left alone together in the great salon of the castle, with its gilt panelling and many mirrors. Gabriel, standing by the door, saw Ophelia stretched at half length on a sofa by the open French window. She had a book in her hands, and a table beside her bearing flowers and a confectionery-box. Red cushions pillowed her opulent shoulders. She was dressed in black, with a red rose over her heart and a collar of Venetian lace about her throat. She glanced up as the man entered, and closed the book in her lap with an affectation of languor. If the sister’s virago-like methods had kindled the man’s temper, Ophelia’s mood chilled him into a pillar of intellect. It was easily discernible that Ophelia had petrified her mind for the ordeal. There was to be no passionate rhetoric, no pleading, no elevation of sentimentalism. The man read her temper as he gazed at her brilliant eyes and firm white face. “Well?” she said, with a certain flippant hauteur that was admirably assumed. “I have ridden over to see you.” “Evidently.” “I am your husband.” “A platitude.” “I have a right to claim some explanation from you for this.” She smiled very slightly, stretched out a white hand, and chose a chocolate from the box with purposeful deliberation. “Do not pretend to be ingenuous,” she said; “there is no need for an exchange of confidences. The matter is simple enough; let us keep to crude facts. You have preferred a farm wench to your wife. I cannot see that any explanations are needed.” Gabriel flushed for the moment, bit his lip, and relapsed into composure. “I should be glad to know to whom you refer.” “Please do not ape the simpleton.” “Answer me this.” “I believe her name is Gildersedge, or something of the sort.” “An infamous lie.” “Is it? My solicitors have advised me differently.” There was silence a moment between them. The woman lay back on her cushions and watched the man with imperturbable curiosity, infinite satisfaction. “Do you know what you are doing?” he asked, speaking with peculiar quietness. “Probably.” “Ruining the life of an innocent girl.” “And you?” “I am telling you the truth.” “My dear coz, saintliness hardly suits the occasion.”