“You mean dippy?”

“Oh, Austin, you’re horrid.  I mean that there is mental trouble in that family.  You have heard of it as well as I; you know her father died of it—­”

“The usual defence in criminal cases,” observed Austin, flicking his cigarette-end into the grate.  “I’m sorry, dear, that Alixe has the jumps; hope she’ll get over ’em.  But as for pretending I’ve any use for her, I can’t and don’t and won’t.  She spoiled life for the best man I know; she kicked his reputation into a cocked hat, and he, with his chivalrous Selwyn conscience, let her do it.  I did like her once; I don’t like her now, and that’s natural and it winds up the matter.  Dear friend, shall we, perhaps, to bed presently our way wend—­yess?”

“Yes, dear; but you are not very charitable about Alixe.  And I tell you I’ve my own ideas about her illness—­especially as she is at Clifton. . . .  I wonder where her little beast of a husband is?”

But Austin only yawned and looked at the toes of his slippers, and then longingly at the pillows.

* * * * *

Had Nina known it, the husband of Mrs. Ruthven, whom she had characterised so vividly, was at that very moment seated in a private card-room at the Stuyvesant Club with Sanxon Orchil, George Fane, and Bradley Harmon; and the game had been bridge, as usual, and had gone very heavily against him.

Several things had gone against Mr. Ruthven recently; for one thing, he was beginning to realise that he had made a vast mistake in mixing himself up in any transactions with Neergard.

When he, at Neergard’s cynical suggestion, had consented to exploit his own club—­the Siowitha—­and had consented to resign from it to do so, he had every reason to believe that Neergard meant to either mulct them heavily or buy them out.  In either case, having been useful to Neergard, his profits from the transaction would have been considerable.

But, even while he was absorbed in figuring them up—­and he needed the money, as usual—­Neergard coolly informed him of his election to the club, and Ruthven, thunder-struck, began to perceive the depth of the underground mole tunnels which Neergard had dug to undermine and capture the stronghold which had now surrendered to him.

Rage made him ill for a week; but there was nothing to do about it.  He had been treacherous to his club and to his own caste, and Neergard knew it—­and knew perfectly well that Ruthven dared not protest—­dared not even whimper.

Then Neergard began to use Ruthven when he needed him; and he began to permit himself to win at cards in Ruthven’s house—­a thing he had not dared to do before.  He also permitted himself more ease and freedom in that house—­a sort of intimacy sans facon—­even a certain jocularity.  He also gave himself the privilege of inviting the Ruthvens on board the Niobrara; and Ruthven went, furious at being forced to stamp with his open approval an episode which made Neergard a social probability.