“I dare not question you are an authority in such matters,” said John Charteris, sweetly—­“since among many others, Clarice Pendomer is near enough to be an obtainable witness.”

Colonel Musgrave grimaced.  “But what a gesture!” he thought, half-enviously.  Jack Charteris, quite certainly, meant to make the most of the immunity Musgrave had purchased for him.  None the less, Musgrave had now his cue.  Patricia must be listening.

And so what Colonel Musgrave said was:  “Put it that a burnt child dreads the fire—­is that a reason he should not warn his friends against it?”

“At least,” said Charteris at length, “you are commendably frank.  I appreciate that, Rudolph.  I honestly appreciate the fact you have come to me, not as the husband of that fiction in which kitchen-maids delight, breathing fire and speaking balderdash, but as one sensible man to another.  Let us be frank, then; let us play with the cards upon the table.  You have charged me with loving your wife; and I answer you frankly—­I do.  She does me the honor to return this affection.  What, then, Rudolph?”

Musgrave blew out a puff of smoke.  “I don’t especially mind,” he said, slowly.  “According to tradition, of course, I ought to spring at your throat with a smothered curse.  But, as a matter of fact, I don’t see why I should be irritated.  No, in common reason,” he added, upon consideration, “I am only rather sorry for you both.”

Mr. Charteris sprang to his feet, and walked up and down the beach.  “Ah, you hide your feelings well,” he cried, and his laughter was a trifle unconvincing and a bit angry.  “But it is unavailing with me.  I know!  I know the sick and impotent hatred of me that is seething in your heart; and I feel for you the pity you pretend to entertain toward me.  Yes, I pity you.  But what would you have?  Frankly, while in many ways an estimable man, you are no fit mate for Patricia.  She has the sensitive, artistic temperament, poor girl; and only we who are cursed with it can tell you what its possession implies.  And you—­since frankness is the order of the day, you know—­well, you impress me as being a trifle inadequate.  It is not your fault, perhaps, but the fact remains that you have never amounted to anything personally.  You have simply traded upon the accident of being born a Musgrave of Matocton.  In consequence you were enabled to marry Patricia’s money, just as the Musgraves of Matocton always marry some woman who is able to support them.  Ah, but it was her money you married, and not Patricia!  Any community of interest between you was impossible, and is radically impossible.  Your marriage was a hideous mistake, just as mine was.  For you are starving her soul, Rudolph, just as Anne has starved mine.  And now, at last, when Patricia and I have seen our single chance of happiness, we cannot—­no! we cannot and we will not—­defer to any outworn tradition or to fear of Mrs. Grundy’s narrow-minded prattle!”