She could not tell whether there was anger or kindness in his voice, and she could not well see his face.  She took his hand and went into the dining-room, which was also dusk, and standing there told him all her story.

“This is too bad, Sheila!” he said in a tone of deep vexation.  “By Jove!  I’ll go and thrash that dog within an inch of his life.”

“No,” she said, drawing herself up; and for one brief second—­could he but have seen her face—­there was a touch of old Mackenzie’s pride and firmness about the ordinarily gentle lips.  It was but for a second.  She cast down her eyes and said meekly, “I hope you won’t do that, Frank.  The dog is not to blame.  It was my fault.”

“Well, really, Sheila,” he said, “you are very thoughtless.  I wish you would take some little trouble to act as other women act, instead of constantly putting yourself and me into the most awkward positions.  Suppose I had brought any one home to dinner, now?  And what am I to say to Ingram? for of course I went direct to his lodgings when I discovered you were nowhere to be found.  I fancied some mad freak had taken you there; and I should not have been surprised.  Indeed, I don’t think I should be surprised at anything you do.  Do you know who was in the hall when I came in this afternoon?”

“No,” said Sheila.

“Why that wretched old hag who keeps the fruit-stall.  And it seems you gave her and all her family tea and cake in the kitchen last night.”

“She is a poor old woman,” said Sheila humbly.

“A poor old woman!” he said impatiently.  “I have no doubt she is a lying old thief, who would take an umbrella or a coat if only she could get the chance.  It is really too bad, Sheila, your having all those persons about you, and demeaning yourself by amending on them.  What must the servants think of you?”

“I do not heed what any servants think of me,” she said.

She was now standing erect, with her face quite calm.

“Apparently not,” he said, “or you would not go and make yourself ridiculous before them.”

Sheila hesitated for a moment, as if she did not understand; and then she said, as calmly as before, but with a touch of indignation about the proud and beautiful lips, “And if I make myself ridiculous by attending to poor people, it is not my husband who should tell me so.”

She turned and walked out, and he was too surprised to follow her.  She went up stairs to her own room, locked herself in and threw herself on the bed.  And then all the bitterness of her heart rose up as if in a flood—­not against him, but against the country in which he lived, and the society which had contaminated him, and the ways and habits that seemed to create a barrier between herself and him, so that she was a stranger to him, and incapable of becoming anything else.  It was a crime that she should interest herself in the unfortunate creatures round about her—­that she should talk to