“Don’t let’s worry about whose house it is,” he said coldly.  “Miss Bishop’s tired—­that’s our first consideration.  A taxi’s not got the latest pattern of springs that your car has.”

Taylor entered the room.

“Taylor,” he added.  “Show Miss Bishop up to the Elizabeth room.”

He smiled at Sally as she departed; then, when the door had closed, he turned back to his sister.

Now she was a lost woman, losing a losing game.  Her eyes sparkled with anger; she took her breath rapidly between her teeth.

“How dare you bring your mistresses down here and insult me in my own house!” she said recklessly.  So a woman, the best of them, strikes when the points are turning against her.  It is the rushing blow of the losing man in the ring.  Its comparison can be traced through all sports—­all games.  There is always force at the back of the blow, the brute force of desperation; but, with no head to guide it, it wastes itself in air.  Once delivered, striking nothing, with all the weight of the body behind it, the body itself is unbalanced, loses equilibrium, becomes a tottering mark for the answering fist.

The moment she had said it, seeing the flame that it lit in her brother’s eyes, Mrs. Durlacher wished it unsaid.  For the instant he gazed at her, then his anger was spent.  Knowing how wasted that blow was, he turned to the mantelpiece and laughed.  It was the most bitter retaliation he could have made.  She heard it echoing through her brain as the fallen man, dazed and helpless, just hears the seconds being meted out, yet cannot rise, can lift no voice to stop them.

“What Miss Bishop is to me,” he said quietly, “is neither here nor there—­only to be classed with one of those impulsive conjectures of yours—­just the same as when you said that she was a milliner.  You don’t quite know what you’re speaking about, and that gives you confidence.  You’re a woman.  But you’ll have to forgive me if I correct you when you talk about this house as yours—­it’s not—­it’s mine.  You’ve scarcely what constitutes a tenancy of it.”

“Haven’t you to put down the sum of five thousand pounds before you can say that?” she asked, her voice steadied, her impulses all under the curb now.  She must step lightly if she were to win after this.

“Do you think that would be a very difficult matter?” he questioned in return.

“Well, can you do it?”

“Oh no,” he smiled.  “As a matter of fact, I never carry more than four or five pounds in loose cash about with me.  Don’t be a fool, Dolly.  Do you want to irritate me into doing something that you know would put your nose out of joint for the rest of your natural life?  You know well enough, that I could find the money to-morrow if I wanted to.  You’ve irritated me quite enough already.”

“How?”

“By coming down here.”

“Why should that irritate you?”

“Because I guess pretty well your reasons.  You were expecting a lady—­so Mrs. Butterick amiably told me.”  He turned and looked at her fixedly.  “You’re as cute as ten, Dolly, but I’m hanged if you know how to play with me.”