"Dear me--what shall I be then? What _is_ like me?" She threw herself back in a chair, kicked out her little feet, and yawned. It reminded Louis unpleasantly of the attitude of the woman in the _Marriage a la Mode_. Then she chattered; and it struck him, as it had struck him more than once before, that Tyson had found his wife's head empty and furnished it according to his own taste. She was always quoting Tyson; and as there was not the least indication of inverted commas, it was hard to tell which was quotation and which was the original text. This creature of fitful, unbalanced mind and reckless speech was certainly the Mrs. Nevill Tyson he had sometimes seen at Thorneytoft; but it was not the Mrs. Nevill Tyson of last night, nor even of the other day, that afternoon when her eyes said, as unmistakably as eyes could say anything, that she would not accept defeat. Another moment and the expression of her face had changed again; he saw something there that he had never seen before, something unguarded and appealing. He was near the end of doubt. He felt that if he stayed with her another moment he would lose his head, and he did not want to lose it--yet! He struggled desperately between his desire to stay and his will to go--if there was any difference between desire and will. His struggles were cut short by the entrance of Tyson. He walked into the room at half-past five, greeted Stanistreet cheerfully (his eyes twinkling), ordered fresh tea, and began to talk to his wife as if nothing had happened. If Louis had not known him so well, he would have said he was immensely improved since the remarkable occasion on which they had last met. He had quarreled with his best friend; he had betrayed his wife and then left her; and he could come back with a twinkle in his eye. From where Stanistreet sat Mrs. Nevill Tyson's face was a _profil perdu_; but he could hear her breath fluttering in her throat like a bird. "Didn't I see you two at the 'Criterion' last night?" said Tyson. "What did you think of 'Rosemary,' Molly?" "I--I thought it was very good." "From a purely literary point of view, eh? As you sat with your back to the stage your judgment was not biased by such vulgar accessories as scenery and acting. No doubt that is the way to enjoy a play. What are your engagements for to-night?" "Mine? I have none, Nevill." "Ah--well, then, you might tell them to get my room ready for me. Don't go, Stanistreet." He had come home to stay. CHAPTER XV CONFLAGRATION