“Why?  Is anything the matter with her?”

“I don’t know; she has not been the same since she poisoned herself.  And why did she not tell about it?  But for Trefusis we should never have known.”

“Gertrude always made secrets of things.”

“She was in a vile temper for two days after; and now she is quite changed.  She falls into long reveries, and does not hear a word of what is going on around.  Then she starts into life again, and begs your pardon with the greatest sweetness for not catching what you have said.”

“I hate her when she is polite; it is not natural to her.  As to her going to sleep, that is the effect of the hemlock.  We know a man who took a spoonful of strychnine in a bath, and he never was the same afterwards.”

“I think she is making up her mind to encourage Erskine,” said Agatha.  “When I came here he hardly dared speak to her—­at least, she always snubbed him.  Now she lets him talk as much as he likes, and actually sends him on messages and allows him to carry things for her.”

“Yes.  I never saw anybody like Gertrude in my life.  In London, if men were attentive to her, she sat on them for being officious; and if they let her alone she was angry at being neglected.  Erskine is quite good enough for her, I think.”

Here Erskine appeared at the door and looked round the room.

“She’s not here,” said Jane.

“I am seeking Sir Charles,” he said, withdrawing somewhat stiffly.

“What a lie!” said Jane, discomfited by his reception of her jest.  “He was talking to Sir Charles ten minutes ago in the billiard room.  Men are such conceited fools!”

Agatha had strolled to the window, and was looking discontentedly at the prospect, as she had often done at school when alone, and sometimes did now in society.  The door opened again, and Sir Charles appeared.  He, too, looked round, but when his roving glance reached Agatha, it cast anchor; and he came in.

“Are you busy just now, Miss Wylie?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jane hastily.  “She is going to write a letter for me.”

“Really, Jane,” he said, “I think you are old enough to write your letters without troubling Miss Wylie.”

“When I do write my own letters you always find fault with them,” she retorted.

“I thought perhaps you might have leisure to try over a duet with me,” he said, turning to Agatha.

“Certainly,” she replied, hoping to smooth matters by humoring him.  “The letter will do any time before post hour.”

Jane reddened, and said shortly, “I will write it myself, if you will not.”

Sir Charles quite lost his temper.  “How can you be so damnably rude?” he said, turning upon his wife.  “What objection have you to my singing duets with Miss Wylie?”

“Nice language that!” said Jane.  “I never said I objected; and you have no right to drag her away to the piano just when she is going to write a letter for me.”