On their return to the Bristol, Brock and Miss Fowler found the fair Edith in a pitiful state of collapse.  She declared over and over again that she could not face the Rodneys; it was more than should be expected of her; she was sure that something would go wrong; why, oh, why was it necessary to deceive the Rodneys?  Why should they be kept in the dark?  Why wasn’t Roxbury there to counsel wisely—­and more, ad infinitum, until the distracted pair were on the point of deserting the cause.  She finally dissolved into tears, and would not listen to reason, expostulation, or persuasion.  It was then that Brock cruelly but effectively declared his intention to abdicate, as he also had a reputation to preserve.  Whereupon, with a fine sense of distinction, she flared up and accused him of treachery to his best friend, Roxbury Medcroft, who was reposing the utmost confidence in his friendship and loyalty.  How could she be expected to go on with the play if he, the man upon whom everything depended, was to turn tail in a critical hour like this?

“How can you have the heart to spoil everything?” she cried indignantly.  He looked at her in fresh amazement.  “Roxbury would never forgive you.  We have both placed the utmost confidence in you, Mr. Brock, and—­”

“’Sh!  Say ’Roxbury, dear’!” interposed the practical Constance.  “The walls may have ears, my dears.”

Then Mrs. Medcroft plaintively implored his forgiveness, and said that she was miserable and ashamed and very unappreciative.  Brock, in deep humility, begged her pardon for his unnecessary harshness, and promised not to offend again.

“The first quarrel,” cried Constance delightedly.  “How nicely you’ve made it up.  And you’ve been married less than a week!”

“Roxbury and I didn’t have our first quarrel until we’d been married a year,” said Edith reflectively.

“Oh, I say, Edith,” exclaimed Brock, with a dark frown, “I’d rather you wouldn’t be forever extolling the good qualities of my predecessor.  It’s very bad taste.  Very much like the pies mother used to make.”

“Silly!” cried Medcroft’s wife, now in fine humour.

“Besides, Rox is an Englishman.  It would take him a year to produce a quarrel.  The American husband is not so confounded slow.  I won’t live up to Roxbury in everything.”

It was decided that Constance should greet the Rodneys upon their arrival; the Medcrofts were not to appear until dinner time.  Afterwards the entire party would attend the opera, which was then in the closing week.  Brock, with splendid prodigality, had taken a box for the final performance of “Tristan and Isolde.”  It is not out of place to remark that Brock loathed the Wagnerian opera; he was of “The Mikado” cult.  He took the seats with a definite purpose in mind to cast the burden of responsibility upon his wife, who would be forced to extend herself in the capacity of hostess, giving him the much-needed