“Quite a probable person,” I assured Catherine.

“But I have heard all sorts of things about her!”

“From Bob?”

“No, he never mentioned her.”

“Nor me, perhaps?”

“Nor you, Duncan.  I am afraid there may be just a drop of bad blood there!  You see, he looked upon you as a successful rival.  You wrote and told me so, if you remember, from some place on your way down from the mountains.  Your letter and Bob arrived the same night.”

I nodded.

“It was so clever of you!” pursued Catherine.  “Quite brilliant; but I don’t quite know what to say to your letting my baby climb that awful Matterhorn; in a fog, too!”

And there was real though momentary reproach in the firelit face.

“I couldn’t very well stop him, you know.  Besides,” I added, “it was such a chance.”

“Of what?”

“Of getting rid of Mrs. Lascelles.  I thought you would think it worth the risk.”

“I do,” declared Catherine, on due consultation with the fire.  “I really do!  Bob is all I have—­all I want—­in this world, Duncan; and it may seem a dreadful thing to say, and you mayn’t believe it when I’ve said it, but—­yes!—­I’d rather he had never come home at all than come home married, at his age, and to an Indian widow, whose first husband had divorced her!  I mean it, Duncan; I do indeed!”

“I am sure you do,” said I.  “It was just what I said to myself.”

“To think of my Bob being Number Three!” murmured Catherine, with that plaintive drollery of hers which I had found irresistible in the days of old.

I was able to resist it now.  “So those were the things you heard?” I remarked.

“Yes,” said Catherine; “haven’t you heard them?”

“I didn’t need.  I knew her in India years ago.”

Catherine’s eyes opened.

“You knew this Mrs. Lascelles?”

“Before that was her name.  I have also met her original husband.  If you had known him, you would be less hard on her.”

Catherine’s eyes were still wide open.  They were rather hard eyes, after all.  “Why did you not tell me you had known her, when you wrote?” she asked.

“It wouldn’t have done any good.  I did what you wanted done, you know.  I thought that was enough.”

“It was enough,” echoed Catherine, with a quick return of grace.  She looked into the fire.  “I don’t want to be hard upon the poor thing, Duncan!  I know you think we women always are, upon each other.  But to have come back married—­at his age—­to even the nicest woman in the world!  It would have been madness ... ruination ...  Duncan, T’m going to say something else that may shock you.”

“Say away,” said I.

Her voice had fallen.  She was looking at me very narrowly, as if to measure the effect of her unspoken words.

“I am not so very sure about marriage,” she went on, “at any age!  Don’t misunderstand me ...  I was very happy ... but I for one could never marry again ... and I am not sure that I ever want to see Bob....”