“Why, what on earth do you mean, Margaret?”

Margaret Pettifer sat down in her chair.

“Where was Dick yesterday afternoon?”

“Margaret, I don’t know.”

“I do.  I saw him.  He was with Stella Ballantyne on the river—­in the dusk—­in a Canadian canoe.”  She uttered each fresh detail in a more indignant tone, as though it aggravated the crime.  Yet even so she had not done.  There was, it seemed, a culminating offence.  “She was wearing a white lace frock with a big hat.”

“Well,” said Mr. Hazlewood mildly, “I don’t think I have anything against big hats.”

“She was trailing her hand in the water—­that he might notice its slenderness of course.  Outrageous I call it!”

Mr. Hazlewood nodded his head at his indignant sister.

“I know that frame of mind very well, Margaret,” he remarked.  “She cannot do right.  If she had been wearing a small hat she would have been Frenchified.”

But Mrs. Pettifer was not in a mood for argument.

“Can’t you see what it all means?” she cried in exasperation.

“I can.  I do,” Mr. Hazlewood retorted and he smiled proudly upon his sister.  “The boy’s better nature is awakening.”

Margaret Pettifer lifted up her hands.

“The boy!” she exclaimed.  “He’s thirty-four if he’s a day.”

She leaned forward in her chair and pointing up to the bay asked:  “Why is that window open, Harold?”

Harold Hazlewood showed his first sign of discomfort.  He shifted in his chair.

“It’s a hot night, Margaret.”

“That is not the reason,” Mrs. Pettifer retorted implacably.  “Where is Dick?”

“I expect that he is seeing Mrs. Ballantyne home.”

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Pettifer with a world of significance in her voice.  Mr. Hazlewood sat up and looked at his sister.

“Margaret, you want to make me uncomfortable,” he exclaimed pettishly.  “But you shan’t.  No, my dear, you shan’t.”  He let himself sink back again and joining the tips of his fingers contemplated the ceiling.  But Margaret was in the mind to try.  She shot out her words at him like so many explosive bullets.

“Being friends is one thing, Harold.  Marrying is another.”

“Very true, Margaret, very true.”

“They are in love with one another.”

“Rubbish, Margaret, rubbish.”

“I watched them at the dinner-table and afterwards.  They are man and woman, Harold.  That’s what you don’t understand.  They are not illustrations of your theories.  Ask Robert.”

“No,” exclaimed Robert Pettifer.  He hurriedly lit a cigar.  “Any inference I should make must be purely hypothetical.”

“Yes, we’ll ask Robert.  Come, Pettifer!” cried Mr. Hazlewood.  “Let us have your opinion.”

Robert Pettifer came reluctantly down from his corner.

“Well, if you insist, I think they were very friendly.”