He bit his lip.  “Well, if you must have it—­so did Lady Carfax till she found out her mistake.”

“Lady Carfax!” Dot’s face changed.  “What about Lady Carfax?”

“She gave him her friendship,” Bertie told her grimly, “and he rewarded her with about as foul a trick as any man could conceive.  You heard the story of the motor breaking down that day in the summer when he took her for a ride?  It was nothing but an infernal trick.  He wanted to get her for himself, and it wasn’t his fault that he failed.  It was in consequence of that that Lucas sent him away.”

“Oh!” said Dot.  “He was in love with her then!”

“If you call it love,” said Bertie.  “He is always in love with someone.”

Dot’s eyes expressed enlightenment.  She seemed to have forgotten their difference of opinion.  “So that was why he was so cut up,” she said.  “Of course—­of course!  I was a donkey not to think of it.  What a mercy Sir Giles is dead!  Has anyone written to tell him?”

“No,” said Bertie shortly.

“But why not?  Surely he has a right to know?  Lady Carfax herself might wish it.”

“Lady Carfax would be thankful to forget his very existence,” said Bertie, with conviction.

“My dear boy, how can you possibly tell?  Are you one of those misguided male creatures who profess to understand women?”

“I know that Lady Carfax loathes the very thought of him,” Bertie maintained.  “She is not a woman to forgive and forget very easily.  Moreover, as I told you before, no one knows where he is.”

“I see,” said Dot thoughtfully.  “But surely he has a club somewhere?”

“Yes, he belongs to the Phoenix Club, New York, if they haven’t kicked him out.  But what of that?  I’m not going to write to him.  I don’t want him back, Heaven knows.”  There was a fighting note in Bertie’s voice.  He spoke as if prepared to resist to the uttermost any sudden attack upon his resolution.

But Dot attempted none; she abandoned the argument quite suddenly, and nestled against his breast.  “Darling, don’t let’s talk about it any more!  It’s a subject upon which we can’t agree.  And I’m sorry I’ve been so horrid to you.  I know it isn’t my fault that we haven’t quarrelled.  Forgive me, dear, and keep on loving me.  You do love me, don’t you, Bertie?”

“Sweetheart!” he whispered, holding her closely.

She uttered a little muffled laugh.  “That’s my own boy!  And I’m going to be so good, you’ll hardly know me.  I won’t go out in the rain, and I won’t do the Clothing Club accounts, and I won’t overwork.  And—­and—­I won’t be cross, even if I do look and feel hideous.  I’m going to be a perfect saint, Bertie.”

“Sweetheart!” he said again.

She turned her face up against his neck.  “Shall I tell you why?” she said, clinging to him with hands that trembled.  “It’s because if I let myself get cross-grained and ugly now, p’r’aps someone else—­some day—­will be cross-grained and ugly too.  And I should never forgive myself for that.  I should always feel it was my fault.  Fancy if it turned out a shrew like me, Bertie!  Wouldn’t—­wouldn’t it be dreadful?”