handsomely turned out of the Middleswick seat, and was probably going to “rat” to an Opposition that promised more than the Government—­that Cecilia’s eldest girl—­“a pretty little minx”—­had been already presented, and was likely to prove as skilful a campaigner for a husband as her mother before her—­that “Gerald” had lost heavily at Newmarket, and was now a financial nuisance, borrowing from everybody in the family—­and so on, and so on.

Melrose received these various items of information half scornfully, half greedily; it might have been guessed that his interest in the teller was a good deal keener than his interest in the things told.  The conversation revealed to Netta phases in her husband’s existence wholly unknown to her.  So Edmund had been in Rome—­for two or three years—­in the Embassy!  That she had never known.  He seemed also to have been an English member of Parliament for a time.  In any case he had lived, apparently for years, like other men of his kind—­shooting, racing, visiting, travelling, fighting, elections.  She could not fit the facts to which both alluded with her own recollections of the misanthrope who had first made acquaintance with her and her family in Florence three years before this date; and her bewilderment grew.

As for the others, they had soon, it seemed, completely forgotten the thin sallow-faced wife, who sat with her back to the window, restlessly twisting her rings.

Presently Melrose stopped abruptly—­in front of Lady Tatham.

“Where is Edith?” He bent forward peremptorily, his hand on the table, his eyes on the lady’s face.

“At the Cape with her husband.”

“Has she found him out yet?”

“There’s nothing to find out.  He’s an excellent fellow.”

“A stupid prig,” said Melrose passionately.  “Well, you did it!—­You did it!”

“Yes, I did it.”  Lady Tatham rose quietly.  She had paled, and after a minute’s hesitation she held out her hand to Melrose.  “Suppose, Edmund, we bury the hatchet.  I should like to be friends with you and your wife, if you would allow it?”

The change of manner was striking.  Up to this moment Lady Tatham had been, so to speak, the aggressor, venturing audaciously on ground which she knew to be hostile—­from bravado?—­or for some hidden reason?  But she spoke now with seriousness—­even with a touch of womanly kindness.

Melrose looked at her furiously.

“Lady Tatham, I advise you to leave us alone!”

She sighed, met his eyes a moment, gravely, then turned to Netta.

“Mrs. Melrose, your husband and I have an old quarrel.  He wanted to marry my sister.  I prevented it.  She is married now—­and he is married.  Why shouldn’t we make friends?”

“Quarrels are very foolish!” said Netta, sententiously, straightening her small shoulders.  But she dared not look at Melrose.

“Well, tell him so,” laughed Lady Tatham.  “And come and see me at Duddon Castle.”