“You began this argument,” said I, “with the proposition that woman was a remarkable phenomenon—­a generalisation which includes woman in fig-leaves and woman in diamonds.”

“Oh, dry up,” said Jaffery, “and tell me what I ought to do.  I didn’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings.  Why should I?  In fact I’m rather fond of her.  She appeals to me as something big and primitive.  Long ago, if it hadn’t been that poor old Prescott—­you know what I mean—­I gave up thinking of her in that way at once—­and now I just want to be friends—­we have been friends.  She’s a jolly good sort, and, if I had thought of it, I would have taken her about a bit. . . .  But what I can’t stand is these modern neurotics—­”

“You called them heroics—­”

“All the same thing.  It’s purely artificial.  It’s cultivated by every modern woman.  Instead of thinking in a straight line they’re taught it’s correct to think in a corkscrew.  You never know where to have ’em.”

“That’s their artfulness,” said I.  “Who can blame them?”

Meanwhile Liosha, pursued by Barbara, had rushed to her bedroom, where she burst into a passion of tears.  Jaff Chayne, she wailed, had always treated her like dirt.  It was true that her father had stuck pigs in the stockyards; but he was of an old Albanian family, quite as good a family as Jaff Chayne’s.  It had numbered princes and great chieftains, the majority of whom had been most gloriously slain in warfare.  She would like to know which of Jaff Chayne’s ancestors had died out of their feather beds.

“His grandfather,” said Barbara, “was killed in the Indian Mutiny, and his father in the Zulu War.”

Liosha didn’t care.  That only proved an equality.  Jaff Chayne had no right to treat her like dirt.  He had no right to put a female policeman over her.  She was a free woman—­she wouldn’t go out to dinner with Jaff Chayne for a thousand pounds.  Oh, she hated him; at which renewed declaration she burst into fresh weeping and wished she were dead.  As a guardian of young and beautiful widows Jaffery did not seem to be a success.

Barbara, in her wise way, said very little, and searched the paraphernalia on the dressing table for eau-de-cologne and such other lotions as would remove the stain of tears.  Holding these in front of Liosha, like a stern nurse administering medicine, she waited till the fit had subsided.  Then she spoke.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Liosha, going on like a silly schoolgirl instead of a grown-up woman of the world.  I wonder you didn’t announce your intention of assassinating Jaffery.”

“I’ve a good mind to,” replied Liosha, nursing her grievance.

“Well, why don’t you do it?” Barbara whipped up a murderous-looking knife that lay on a little table—­it was the same weapon that she had lent the Swiss waiter.  “Here’s a dagger.”  She threw it on the girl’s lap.  “I’ll ring the bell and send a message for Mr. Chayne to come up.  As soon as he enters you can stick it into him.  Then you can stick it into me.  Then if you like you can go downstairs and stick it into Hilary.  And having destroyed everybody who cares for you and is good to you, you’ll feel a silly ass—­such a silly ass that you’ll forget to stick it into yourself.”