“And now,” said he, “I will stop talking like a problem play, and we will say no more about it.  Give me your portmanteau, my dear, and upon my word of honor, you will never hear a word further from me in the matter.  Jack, here, can take the train, just as he intended.  And—­and you and I will go back to the house, and have a good, hot breakfast together.  Eh, Patricia?”

She was thinking, unreasonably enough, how big and strong and clean her husband looked in the growing light.  It was a pity Jack was so small.  However, she faced Musgrave coldly, and thought how ludicrously wide of the mark were all these threats of ostracism.  She shudderingly wished he would not talk of soil and taking root and hideous things like that, but otherwise the colonel left her unmoved.  He was certainly good-looking, though.

Charteris was lighting a cigarette, with a queer, contented look.  He knew the value of Patricia’s stubbornness now; still, he appeared to be using an unnecessary number of matches.

“I should have thought you would have perceived the lack of dignity, as well as the utter uselessness, in making such a scene,” Patricia said.  “We aren’t suited for each other, Rudolph; and it is better—­far better for both of us—­to have done with the farce of pretending to be.  I am sorry that you still care for me.  I didn’t know that.  But, for the future, I intend to live my own life.”

Patricia’s voice faltered, and she stretched out her hands a little toward her husband in an odd gust of friendliness.  He looked so kind; and he was not smiling in that way she never liked.  “Surely that isn’t so unpardonable a crime, Rudolph?” she asked, almost humbly.

“No, my dear,” he answered, “it is not unpardonable—­it is impossible.  You can’t lead your own life, Patricia; none of us can.  Each life is bound up with many others, and every rash act of yours, every hasty word of yours, must affect to some extent the lives of those who are nearest and most dear to you.  But, oh, it is not argument that I would be at!  Patricia, there was a woman once—­She was young, and wealthy, and—­ah, well, I won’t deceive you by exaggerating her personal attractions!  I will serve up to you no praises of her sauced with lies.  But fate and nature had combined to give her everything a woman can desire, and all this that woman freely gave to me—­to me who hadn’t youth or wealth or fame or anything!  And I can’t stand by, for that dear dead girl’s sake, and watch your life go wrong, Patricia!”

“You are just like the rest of them, Olaf”—­and when had she used that half-forgotten nickname last, he wondered.  “You imagine you are in love with a girl because you happen to like the color of her eyes, or because there is a curve about her lips that appeals to you.  That isn’t love, Olaf, as we women understand it.”

And wildly hideous and sad, it seemed to Colonel Musgrave—­this dreary parody of their old love-talk.  Only, he dimly knew that she had forgotten John Charteris existed, and that to her this moment seemed no less sardonic.