“Oh, never mind, Nigel dear,” she said at last, with innocent indiscretion.  “It doesn’t really matter, you know.”

Sir Nigel turned upon her a blaze of haughty indignation.

“If you’ll pardon my saying so, it does matter,” he said.  “It matters confoundedly.  Be good enough to take your place in the carriage.”

He moved to the carriage door, and not too civilly put her in.  She gasped a little for breath as she sat down.  He had spoken to her as if she had been an impertinent servant who had taken a liberty.  The poor girl was bewildered to the verge of panic.  When he had ended his tirade and took his place beside her he wore his most haughtily intolerant air.

“May I request that in future you will be good enough not to interfere when I am reproving my servants,” he remarked.

“I didn’t mean to interfere,” she apologised tremulously.

“I don’t know what you meant.  I only know what you did,” was his response.  “You American women are too fond of cutting in.  An Englishman can think for himself without his wife’s assistance.”

The tears rose to her eyes.  The introduction of the international question overpowered her as always.

“Don’t begin to be hysterical,” was the ameliorating tenderness with which he observed the two hot salt drops which fell despite her.  “I should scarcely wish to present you to my mother bathed in tears.”

She wiped the salt drops hastily away and sat for a moment silent in the corner of the carriage.  Being wholly primitive and unanalytical, she was ashamed and began to blame herself.  He was right.  She must not be silly because she was unused to things.  She ought not to be disturbed by trifles.  She must try to be nice and look cheerful.  She made an effort and did no speak for a few minutes.  When she had recovered herself she tried again.

“English country is so pretty,” she said, when she thought she was quite sure that her voice would not tremble.  “I do so like the hedges and the darling little red-roofed cottages.”

It was an innocent tentative at saying something agreeable which might propitiate him.  She was beginning to realise that she was continually making efforts to propitiate him.  But one of the forms of unpleasantness most enjoyable to him was the snubbing of any gentle effort at palliating his mood.  He condescended in this case no response whatever, but merely continued staring contemptuously before him.

“It is so picturesque, and so unlike America,” was the pathetic little commonplace she ventured next.  “Ain’t it, Nigel?”

He turned his head slowly towards her, as if she had taken a new liberty in disturbing his meditations.

“Wha—­at?” he drawled.

It was almost too much for her to sustain herself under.  Her courage collapsed.

“I was only saying how pretty the cottages were,” she faltered.  “And that there’s nothing like this in America.”