“When you wish to catechise me upon family matters, Mabel, it is my wish that you should do it in private,” he said, roughly.  “Then you shall learn all that it concerns you to know.  There are subjects into which only prurient curiosity cares to pry.”

“I beg your pardon!” answered Mabel, quietly.  “I have but to say, in self-defence, that I did not ask to see the letter.”

“It is a matter of profound indifference to me whether you did or not,” was the reply.  “For aught that I know or cared, you may have read it a year and a half ago.  I retract nothing that is set down there.  Clara, shall we go on with our music?”

Glancing around stealthily at the finale of the (sic) he saw that Mabel’s chair was vacant, and Mr. Aylett was reading composedly beneath the lamp.

Clara made the same discovery at the same moment, and came forward laughing to her husband.

“What had you been saying to our dear, excitable Mabel, that challenged the introduction of that unfortunate document?”

“Told her of Frederic Chilton’s intended marriage!” curtly, and without laying aside his volume.

“Preposterous!”

“I agree with you—­but it is the truth.”

Herbert stood apart glowing at the fire.

“You must have approached the subject unskilfully,” urged the peacemaker.  “These old sores are oest left alone.”

“It is best for married woman to have none,” retorted Winston, doggedly.

“She does not persist in doubting his unworthiness, does she?” queried the wife, aside, but not so cautiously that her brother did not hear her.

He wheeled about suddenly.

“She shall believe it, or call me a liar to my face!” he uttered, angrily.  “I will put a stop to this sentimental folly!”

“You are late in beginning your reforms,” observed Mr. Aylett, dryly.

“You are a less sensible man than I give you credit for being, if you ever begin!” interposed his sister.

“Leave Mabel to herself until she recovers from the shock—­if it be one—­of this intelligence.  The surest means of keeping alive a dying coal is to stir and blow upon it.  And even we”—­lifting the heavy locks of her husband’s hair in playful dalliance—­“even we are mortal.  We have had our peccadilloes and our repentances, and have now our little concealments of affairs that would interest nobody but ourselves.  Do you hear what I am saying, Herbert!  Leave off your high tragedy airs and attend to reason, as expressed in your sister’s advice.  While your wife is my invalid guest, I will not have her subjected to any inquisitorial process.  There is a time for everything under the sun, saith the preacher.  This is the season for tender forbearance, and if need be, of forgiveness.”

Herbert blessed her humane tolerance in his alarmed heart, when Mabel awoke from her troubled slumbers at midnight, in extreme pain, that culminated before dawn, in convulsions.