that he ends by deceiving himself, I suppose.  For he is always plausible.  It is worse than useless to argue any matter with him, because he invariably ends by making you feel as if you had been caught stealing a hat.  The only argument that would get the better of John Charteris is knocking him down, just as spanking is the only argument which ever gets the better of a baby.  Yes, he is very like a baby—­thoroughly selfish and thoroughly dependent on other people; only, he is a clever baby who exaggerates his own helplessness in order to appeal to women.  He has a taste for women.  And women naturally like him, for he impresses them as an irresponsible child astray in an artful and designing world.  They want to protect him.  Even I do, at times.  It is really maternal, you know; we would infinitely prefer for him to be soft and little, so that we could pick him up, and cuddle him.  But as it is, he is dangerous.  He believes whatever he tells himself, you see.”

Her voice died away, and Mrs. Ashmeade fanned herself in the fashion addicted by perturbed women who, nevertheless, mean to have their say out—­slowly and impersonally, and quite as if she was fanning some one else through motives of charity.

“I don’t question,” Musgrave said, at length, “that Jack is the highly estimable character you describe.  But—­oh, it is all nonsense, Polly!” he cried, with petulance, and with a tinge—­if but the merest nuance —­of conviction lacking in his voice.

The fan continued its majestic sweep from the shade into the sunlight, and back again into the shadow.  Without, many locusts shrilled monotonously.

“Rudolph, I know what you meant by saying that Fate hadn’t such a fine sense of humor.”

“My dear madam, it was simply thrown out, in the heat of conversation—­as an axiom——­”

For a moment the fan paused; then went on as before.  It was never charged against Pauline Ashmeade, whatever her shortcomings, that she was given to unnecessary verbiage.

Colonel Musgrave was striding up and down, divided between a disposition to swear at the universe at large and a desire to laugh at it.  Somehow, it did not occur to him to doubt what she had told him.  He comprehended now that, chafing under his indebtedness in the affair of Mrs. Pendomer, Charteris would most naturally retaliate by making love to his benefactor’s wife, because the colonel also knew John Charteris.  And for the rest, it was useless to struggle against a Fate that planned such preposterous and elaborate jokes; one might more rationally depend on Fate to work out some both ludicrous and horrible solution, he reflected, remembering a little packet of letters hidden in his desk.

Nevertheless, he paused after a while, and laughed, with a tolerable affectation of mirth.

“I say—­I—­and what in heaven’s name, Polly, prompted you to bring me this choice specimen of a mare’s-nest?”

“Because I am fond of you, I suppose.  Isn’t one always privileged to be disagreeable to one’s friends?  We have been friends a long while, you know.”