He was still looking down with that vague hint of amusement in his eyes—­the look of a man who watches the miniature fury of some tiny creature.

“I’ll do anything you like,” he said with slow indulgence.  “I didn’t know you’d turn nasty, or I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Nasty!” echoed Columbine.  And then her wrath went suddenly into a superb gust of scorn.  “Oh, you—­you are beyond words!” she said.  “You had better get along to the bar and drink there.  You’ll find your own kind there to drink with.”

“I’d rather drink with you,” said Rufus.

She uttered a laugh that was tremulous with anger.  “You’ve done it for the first and last time, my man,” she said.

With the words she turned like a darting, indignant bird, and left him.

Someone was entering the drawing-room from the hall with a careless, melodious whistle—­a whistle that ended on a note of surprise as Columbine sped through the room.  The whistler—­a tall, bronzed young man in white flannels—­stopped short to regard her.

His eyes were grey and wary under absolutely level brows.  His hair was dark, with an inclination—­sternly repressed—­to waviness above the forehead.  He made a decidedly pleasant picture, as even Adam could not have denied.

Columbine also checked herself at sight of him, but the red blood was throbbing at her temples.  There was no hiding her agitation.

“You seem in a hurry,” remarked Knight.  “I hope there is nothing wrong.”

His chin was modelled on firm lines, but there was a very distinct cleft in it that imparted to him the look of one who could smile at most things.  His words were kindly, but they did not hold any very deep concern.

Columbine came to a stand, gripping the back of a chair to steady herself.  “Oh, I—­I have been—­insulted!” she panted.

The straight brows went up a little; the man himself stiffened slightly.  Without further words he moved across to the door into the conservatory and looked through it.  He was in time to see Rufus’s great, lounging figure sauntering away in the direction of the wood-yard.

Knight stood a moment or two and watched him, then quietly turned and rejoined the girl.

She was still leaning upon the chair, but she was gradually recovering her self-control.  As he drew near she made a slight movement as if to resume her interrupted flight.  But some other impulse intervened, and she remained where she was.

Knight came up and stood beside her.  “What has he been doing to annoy you?” he asked.

She made a small, vehement gesture of disgust.  “Oh, we won’t talk of him.  He is an oaf.  I dare say he doesn’t know any better, but he’ll never have a chance of doing it again.  I don’t mix with the riff-raff.”

“He’s Adam’s son, isn’t he?” questioned Knight.

She nodded.  “Yes, the great, hulking lubber!  Adam’s all right.  I like Adam.  But Rufus—­well, Rufus is a bounder, and I’ll never have anything more to say to him.”