He broke off, staring at his sister—­a wild, exultant look—­which struck her uncomfortably.  Her face showed her arrested, against her will.

“Are you sure she didn’t see you?”

“Sure.  I put the child on my shoulder, and hid behind her.  Besides—­my dear—­even Rachel might find it difficult to recognize her discarded husband—­in this individual!”

He tapped his chest lightly.  Lady Winton could not withdraw her own eyes from him.  Yes, it was quite true.  The change in him was shocking—­ghastly.  He had brought it entirely on himself.  But she could not help saying, in a somewhat milder tone,—­

“Have you seen that doctor again?”

“To whom you so obligingly sent me?  Yes, I saw him yesterday.  One lung seems to have finally struck work—­caput! as the Germans say.  The other will last a bit longer yet.”

A fit of coughing seized him.  His sister instinctively moved farther away from him, looking at him with frightened and hostile eyes.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, as soon as he had found his voice again, “I’m drenched in disinfectant.  I take all proper precautions—­for the child’s sake.  Now then”—­he rose with an effort to his feet—­“what are you going to do for me?”

His aspect had altered, had assumed a sinister and passionate intensity.  His sister was conscious of the menace in it, and hastily taking up a small hand-bag lying near her, she produced a purse from it.

“I have saved twenty pounds for you—­out of my own money—­with great difficulty,” she said, with indignant emphasis.  “If I were to tell Richard, he would be furious.  And I cannot—­do—­anything—­more for you, beyond the allowance I give you.  Everything you suffer from, you have brought upon, yourself.  It is hopeless to try and help you.”

He laughed.

“Well, then, I must try Rachel!” he said carelessly, as he looked for his hat.

“That I think would be the lowest depth!” said Lady Winton, breathing quick, “to beg money from the wife who divorced you!”

“I am ready to beg for money—­requisition is the better word—­from anybody in the world who has more of it than I. I am a Bolshevist.  You needn’t talk to me about property, or rights.  I don’t acknowledge them.  I want something that you’ve got, and I haven’t.  I shall take it if I find the opportunity—­civilly if I can, uncivilly, if I must.”

Lady Winton made no reply.  She stood, a statue of angry patience waiting for him to go.  He slowly buttoned on his coat, and then stepped coolly across the room to look at an enlarged photograph of a young soldier standing on the piano.

“Handsome chap!  You’re in luck, Marianne.  I suppose you managed to get him into a staff job of some sort, out of harm’s way?”

He turned to her with a sneer on his lips.  His sister was still silent.