“Didn’t you know it?” she asked, smiling.

“Know what?”

“That Rosamund is quite crazy about you?”

“Good Lord!  Do you suppose that any of the monkey set are interested in me or I in them?” he said, disgusted.  “Do I ever go near them or meet them at all except by accident in the routine of the machinery which sometimes sews us in tangent patches on this crazy-quilt called society?”

[Illustration:  “‘I don’t know why I came.’”]

“But Rosamund,” she said, laughing, “is now cultivating Mrs. Gerard.”

“What of it?” he demanded.

“Because,” she replied, still laughing, “I tell you, she is perfectly mad about you.  There’s no use scowling and squaring your chin.  Oh, I ought to know what that indicates!  I’ve watched you do it often enough; but the fact is that the handsomest and smartest woman in town is for ever dinning your perfections into my ears—­”

“I know,” he said, “that this sort of stuff passes in your set for wit; but let me tell you that any man who cares for that brand of humour can have it any time he chooses.  However, he goes outside the residence district to find it.”

She flushed scarlet at his brutality; he drew up a chair, seated himself very deliberately, and spoke, his unlighted pipe in his left hand: 

“The girl I left—­the girl who left me—­was a modest, clean-thinking, clean-minded girl, who also had a brain to use, and employed it.  Whatever conclusion that girl arrived at concerning the importance of marriage-vows is no longer my business; but the moment she confronts me again, offering friendship, then I may use a friend’s privilege, as I do.  And so I tell you that loosely fashionable badinage bores me.  And another matter—­privileged by the friendship you acknowledge—­forces me to ask you a question, and I ask it, point-blank:  Why have you again permitted Gerald to play cards for stakes at your house, after promising you would not do so?”

The colour receded from her face and her gloved fingers tightened on the arms of her chair.

“That is one reason I came,” she said; “to explain—­”

“You could have written.”

“I say it was one reason; the other I have already given you—­because I—­I felt that you were friendly.”

“I am.  Go on.”

“I don’t know whether you are friendly to me; I thought you were—­that night. . . .  I did not sleep a wink after it . . . because I was quite happy. . . .  But now—­I don’t know—­”

“Whether I am still friendly?  Well, I am.  So please explain about Gerald.”

“Are you sure?” raising her dark eyes, “that you mean to be kind?”

“Yes, sure,” he said harshly.  “Go on.”

“You are a little rough with me; a-almost insolent—­”