Charteris swept aside the dogmas of the world with an indignant gesture of somewhat conscious nobility; and he turned to his companion in an attitude of defiance.

Musgrave was smiling.  He smoked and seemed to enjoy his cigarette.

The day was approaching sunset.  The sun, a glowing ball of copper, hung low in the west over a rampart of purple clouds, whose heights were smeared with red.  A slight, almost imperceptible, mist rose from the river, and, where the horizon should have been, a dubious cloudland prevailed.  Far to the west were orange-colored quiverings upon the stream’s surface, but, nearer, the river dimpled with silver-tipped waves; and, at their feet, the water grew transparent, and splashed over the sleek, brown sand, and sucked back, leaving a curved line of bubbles which, one by one, winked, gaped and burst.  There was a drowsy peacefulness in the air; behind them, among the beeches, were many stealthy wood-sounds; and, at long intervals, a sleepy, peevish twittering went about the nested trees.

In Colonel Musgrave’s face, the primal peace was mirrored.

“May I ask,” said he at length, “what you propose doing?”

Mr. Charteris answered promptly.  “I, of course, propose,” said he, “to ask Patricia to share the remainder of my life.”

“A euphemism, as I take it, for an elopement.  I hardly thought you intended going so far.”

“Rudolph!” cried Charteris, drawing himself to his full height—­and he was not to blame for the fact that it was but five-feet-six—­“I am, I hope, an honorable man!  I cannot eat your salt and steal your honor.  So I loot openly, or not at all.”

The colonel shrugged his shoulders.

“I presuppose you have counted the cost—­and estimated the necessary breakage?”

“True love,” the novelist declared, in a hushed, sweet voice, “is above such considerations.”

“I think,” said Musgrave slowly, “that any love worthy of the name will always appraise the cost—­to the woman.  It is of Patricia I am thinking.”

“She loves me,” Charteris murmured.  He glanced up and laughed.  “Upon my soul, you know, I cannot help thinking the situation a bit farcical—­you and I talking over matters in this fashion.  But I honestly believe the one chance of happiness for any of us hinges on Patricia and me chucking the whole affair, and bolting.”

“No! it won’t do—­no, hang it, Jack, it will not do!” Musgrave glanced toward the bath-house, and he lifted his voice.  “I am not considering you in the least—­and under the circumstances, you could hardly expect me to.  It is of Patricia I am thinking.  I haven’t made her altogether happy.  Our marriage was a mating of incongruities—­and possibly you are justified in calling it a mistake.  Yet, day in and day out, I think we get along as well together as do most couples; and it is wasting time to cry over spilt milk.  Instead, it rests with us, the two men who love her, to decide what is best for Patricia.  It is she and only she we must consider.”