“Nonsense!” he cried.  “Why—­why, it is utter, preposterous, Bedlamite nonsense!” He caught his breath in wonder at the notion of such a jest, remembering a little packet of letters hidden in his desk.  “It—­oh, no, Fate hasn’t quite so fine a sense of humor as that.  The thing is incredible!” Musgrave laughed, and flushed.  “I mean——­”

“I don’t think you need tell me what you mean,” said Mrs. Ashmeade.  She sat down in a large rocking-chair, and fanned herself, for the day was warm.  “Of course, it is officious and presumptuous and disagreeable of me to meddle.  I don’t mind your thinking that.  But Rudolph, don’t make the mistake of thinking that Fate ever misses a chance of humiliating us by showing how poor are our imaginations.  The gipsy never does.  She is a posturing mountebank, who thrives by astounding humanity.”

Mrs. Ashmeade paused, and her eyes were full of memories, and very wise.

“I am only a looker-on at the tragic farce that is being played here,” she continued, after a little, “but lookers-on, you know, see most of the game.  They are not playing fairly with you, Rudolph.  When people set about an infringement of the Decalogue they owe it to their self-respect to treat with Heaven as a formidable antagonist.  To mark the cards is not enough.  They are not playing fairly, my dear, and you ought to know it.”

He walked up and down the porch once or twice, with his hands behind him; then he stopped before Mrs. Ashmeade, and smiled down at her.  Without, many locusts shrilled monotonously.

“No, I do not think you are officious or meddling or anything of the sort, I think you are one of the best and kindest-hearted women in the world.  But—­bless your motherly soul, Polly! the thing is utterly preposterous.  Of course, Patricia is young, and likes attention, and it pleases her to have men admire her.  That, Polly, is perfectly natural.  Why, you wouldn’t expect her to sit around under the trees, and read poetry with her own husband, would you?  We have been married far too long for that, Patricia and I. She thinks me rather prosy and stupid at times, poor girl, because—­well, because, in point of fact, I am.  But, at the bottom of her heart—­Oh, it’s preposterous!  We are the best friends in the world, I tell you!  It is simply that she and Jack have a great deal in common—­”

“You don’t understand John Charteris.  I do,” said Mrs. Ashmeade, placidly.  “Charteris is simply a baby with a vocabulary.  His moral standpoint is entirely that of infancy.  It would be ludicrous to describe him as selfish, because he is selfishness incarnate.  I sometimes believe it is the only characteristic the man possesses.  He reaches out his hand and takes whatever he wants, just as a baby would, quite simply, and as a matter of course.  He wants your wife now, and he is reaching out his hand to take her.  He probably isn’t conscious of doing anything especially wrong; he is always so plausible in whatever he does