The injured woman raised herself up in bed with a vindictive scowl, displaying as she did so the same whale-like curved back as in the other “cases.”  “But we’ve sent ’im to the lockup,” she continued, the scowl giving way fast to a radiant joy of victory as she contemplated her triumph “an’ wot’s more, I ’ad the last word of ’im.  ’An ‘e’ll git six month for this, the neighbours says; an’ when he comes aht again, my Gord, won’t ’e ketch it!”

“You look capable of punishing him for it,” I answered, and as I spoke, I shuddered; for I saw her expression was precisely the expression Mrs. Le Geyt’s face had worn for a passing second when her husband accidentally trod on her dress as we left the dining-room.

My witch moved away.  We followed.  “Well, what do you say to it now?” she asked, gliding among the beds with noiseless feet and ministering fingers.

“Say to it?” I answered.  “That it is wonderful, wonderful.  You have quite convinced me.”

“You would think so,” Travers put in, “if you had been in this ward as often as I have, and observed their faces.  It’s a dead certainty.  Sooner or later, that type of woman is cock-sure to be assaulted.”

“In a certain rank of life, perhaps,” I answered, still loth to believe it; “but not surely in ours.  Gentlemen do not knock down their wives and kick their teeth out.”

My Sibyl smiled.  “No; there class tells,” she admitted.  “They take longer about it, and suffer more provocation.  They curb their tempers.  But in the end, one day, they are goaded beyond endurance; and then—­a convenient knife—­a rusty old sword—­a pair of scissors—­anything that comes handy, like that dagger this morning.  One wild blow—­half unpremeditated—­and . . . the thing is done!  Twelve good men and true will find it wilful murder.”

I felt really perturbed.  “But can we do nothing,” I cried, “to warn poor Hugo?”

“Nothing, I fear,” she answered.  “After all, character must work itself out in its interactions with character.  He has married that woman, and he must take the consequences.  Does not each of us in life suffer perforce the Nemesis of his own temperament?”

“Then is there not also a type of men who assault their wives?”

“That is the odd part of it—­no.  All kinds, good and bad, quick and slow, can be driven to it at last.  The quick-tempered stab or kick; the slow devise some deliberate means of ridding themselves of their burden.”

“But surely we might caution Le Geyt of his danger!”

“It is useless.  He would not believe us.  We cannot be at his elbow to hold back his hand when the bad moment comes.  Nobody will be there, as a matter of fact; for women of this temperament—­born naggers, in short, since that’s what it comes to—­when they are also ladies, graceful and gracious as she is; never nag at all before outsiders.  To the world, they are bland; everybody says, ‘What charming talkers!’ They are ‘angels abroad, devils at home,’ as the proverb puts it.  Some night she will provoke him when they are alone, till she has reached his utmost limit of endurance—­and then,” she drew one hand across her dove-like throat, “it will be all finished.”