Mrs. Jack Bendish rode up while they were talking, slipped from her saddle, and threw the reins to Val without apology, though she knew there was no one but Val to take the mare to the stable.  Yvonne was the only member of the Castle household who presumed on Val’s subordinate position.  She treated him like a superior servant.  When she heard what was in the wind her eyes were as green as a cat’s.  “How kind of Captain Hyde!” she drawled, as Lawrence, irritated by her manner, went to help Val, while Isabel was called indoors by Fanny to listen to a tale of distress, unravel a grievance, and prescribe for anemia.  “Some one ought to warn the child.”

“Warn her of what?”

“Has it never struck you that Isabel is a pretty girl and Lawrence a good looking man?”

“But Isabel is too intelligent to have her head turned by the first handsome man she meets!” Yvonne looked as though she found her sister rather hopeless.  “Dear, you really must be sensible!” Laura pleaded.  “It’s not as if poor Lawrence had tried to flirt with her.  He never even thought of asking her for tonight till I suggested it!” This was the impression left on Laura’s memory.  “She isn’t the sort of woman to attract him.”

“What sort of woman would attract him, I wonder?” said Mrs. Jack, blowing rings of smoke delicately down her thin nostrils.

“Oh, when he marries it will be some one older than Isabel, more sophisticated, more a woman of the world.  I like Lawrence immensely, but there is just that in him:  he’s one of the men who expect their wives to do them credit.”

“Some one more like me,” suggested Yvonne.  “Or you.”  Her face was a study in untroubled innocence.  Laura eyed her rather sharply.  “But Lawrence isn’t a marrying man.  He won’t marry till some woman raises the price on him.”

“You speak as if between men and women life were always a duel.”

“So It is.”  Laura made a small inarticulate sound of dissent.  “Sex is a duel.  Don’t you know”—­an infinitesimal hesitation marked the conscious forcing of a barrier:  cynically frank as she was on most points, Mrs. Bendish had always left her sister’s married life alone:—­“that—­that’s what’s wrong with Bernard?  Oh!  Laura!  Simpleton that you are. . .  I’m often frightfully sorry for Bernard.  It has thrown him clean off the rails.  One can’t wonder that he’s consumed with jealousy.”

In the stillness that followed Yvonne occupied herself with her cigarette.  Mrs. Clowes was formidable even to her sister in her delicately inaccessible dignity.

“Had you any special motive in saying this to me now, Yvonne?”

“This theatre business.”

“I don’t contemplate running away with Lawrence, if that is what you mean.”

“Wish you would!” confessed Mrs. Bendish frankly.  “Then Bernard could divorce you and you could start fair again.  I’m fed up with Bernard.  I’m sorry for him, poor devil, but he never was much of a joy as a husband, and he’s going from bad to worse.  Think I’m blind?  Of course he’s jealous.  High dresses and lace cuffs aren’t the fashion now, Lal.”