Lady Holme looked really indignant. Her face was contorted by a spasm. She was one of those unfortunate women who are capable of retrospective jealousy. “I won’t--how dare you speak to me of those women?” she said bitterly. “You insult me.” “Hang it, there’s no one since you, Vi. You know that. And what would you have thought of a great, hulkin’ chap like me who’d never--well, all right. I’ll dry up. But you know well enough you wouldn’t have looked at me.” “I wonder why I ever did.” “No, you don’t. I’m just the chap to suit you. You’re full of whimsies and need a sledge-hammer fellow to keep you quiet. It you’d married that ass, Carey, or that--” “Fritz, once for all, I won’t have my friends abused. I allowed you to have your own way about Rupert Carey, but I will not have Robin Pierce or anyone else insulted. Please understand that. I married to be more free, not more--” “You married because you’d fallen jolly well in love with me, that’s why you married, and that’s why you’re a damned lucky woman. Come to bed. You won’t, eh?” He made a stride, snatched Lady Holme up as if she were a bundle, and carried her off to bed. She was on the point of bursting into angry tears, but when she found herself snatched up, her slippers tumbling off, the hood of the burnous falling over her eyes, her face crushed anyhow against her husband’s sinewy chest, she suddenly felt oddly contented, disinclined to protest or to struggle. Lord Holme did not trouble himself to ask what she was feeling or why she was feeling it. He thought of himself--the surest way to fasten upon a man the thoughts of others. CHAPTER IV