Liosha threw the knife into a corner.  On its way it snicked a neat little chip out of a chair-back.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Clean your face,” said Barbara, and presented the materials.

Sitting on the bed and regarding herself in a hand-mirror Liosha obeyed meekly.  Barbara brought the powder puff.

“Now your nose.  There!” For the first time Barbara smiled.  “Now you look better.  Oh, my dear girl!” she cried, seating herself beside Liosha and putting an arm round her waist.  “That’s not the way to deal with men.  You must learn.  They’re only overgrown babies.  Listen.”

And she poured into unsophisticated but sympathetic ears all the duplicity, all the treachery, all the insidious cunning and all the serpent-like wisdom of her unscrupulous sex.  What she said neither I nor any of the sons of men are ever likely to know! but so proud of belonging to that nefarious sisterhood, so overweening in her sex-conceit did she render Liosha, that when they entered the little private sitting-room next door whither, according to the instructions conveyed by Barbara’s parting glance downstairs, I had dragged a softly swearing Jaffery, she marched up to him and said serenely: 

“If you really do want me to dine with you, I’ll come with pleasure.  But the next time you ask me, please do it in a decent way.”

I saw mischief lurking in my wife’s eye and shook my head at her rebukingly.  But Jaffery stared at Liosha and gasped.  It was all very well for Doria and Barbara to be ever putting him in the wrong:  they were daughters of a subtle civilisation; but here was Liosha, who had once asked him to beat her, doing the same—­woman was a more curious phenomenon than ever.

“I’m sorry if my manners are not as they should be,” said he with a touch of irony.  “I’ll try to mend ’em.  Anyhow, it’s awfully good of you to come.”

She smiled and bowed; not the deep bow of Albania, but the delicate little inclination of South Kensington.  The quarrel was healed, the incident closed.  He arranged to call for her in a taxi at a quarter to seven.  Barbara looked at the clock and said that we must be going.  We rose to take our leave.  Maliciously I said: 

“But we’ve settled nothing about a remplacante for Mrs. Considine.”

“I guess we’ve settled everything,” Liosha replied sweetly.  “No one can replace Mrs. Considine.”

I quite enjoyed our little silent walk downstairs.  Evidently Jaffery’s theory of primitive woman had been knocked endways; and, to judge by the faint knitting of her brow, Barbara was uneasily conscious of a mission unfulfilled.  Liosha had gained her independence.

* * * * *