“The figure of speech is rather commercial,” coldly.

“It is curious that most things are, as a rule.  There is always the parallel of profit and loss whether one sees it or not.  The profits are happiness and friendship—­enjoyment of life and approbation.  If the inherited temperament supplies one with all one wants of such things, it cannot be called a loss, of course.”

“You think, however, that mine has not brought me much?”

“I do not know.  It is you who know.”

“Well,” viciously, “there has been a sort of luxury in it in lashing out with one’s heels, and smashing things—­and in knowing that people prefer to keep clear.”

She lifted her shoulders a little.

“Then perhaps it has paid.”

“No,” suddenly and fiercely, “damn it, it has not!”

And she actually made no reply to that.

“What do you mean to do?” he questioned as bluntly as before.  He knew she would understand what he meant.

“Not much.  To see that Rosy is not unhappy any more.  We can prevent that.  She was out of repair—­as the house was.  She is being rebuilt and decorated.  She knows that she will be taken care of.”

“I know her better than you do,” with a laugh.  “She will not go away.  She is too frightened of the row it would make—­of what I should say.  I should have plenty to say.  I can make her shake in her shoes.”

Betty let her eyes rest full upon him, and he saw that she was softly summing him up—­quite without prejudice, merely in interested speculation upon the workings of type.

“You are letting the inherited temperament run away with you at this moment,” she reflected aloud—­her quiet scrutiny almost abstracted.  “It was foolish to say that.”

He had known it was foolish two seconds after the words had left his lips.  But a temper which has been allowed to leap hedges, unchecked throughout life, is in peril of forming a habit of taking them even at such times as a leap may land its owner in a ditch.  This last was what her interested eyes were obviously saying.  It suited him best at the moment to try to laugh.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he threw off.  “As if you were calculating that two and two make four.”

“No prejudice of mine can induce them to make five or six—­or three and a half,” she said.  “No prejudice of mine—­or of yours.”

The two and two she was calculating with were the likelihoods and unlikelihoods of the inherited temperament, and the practical powers she could absolutely count on if difficulty arose with regard to Rosy.

He guessed at this, and began to make calculations himself.

But there was no further conversation for them, as they were obliged to rise to their feet to receive visitors.  Lady Alanby of Dole and Sir Thomas, her grandson, were being brought out of the house to them by Rosalie.