back in the big chair and seemed to study the toes on which Charles
Batty had trampled. His voice rolled on like the sound of water,
companionable and unanswerable. Suddenly his tone changed. 'Henrietta
is very unkind to me.'

'Is there any reason why she shouldn't be?'

'I do everything I can think of. I've told her all about myself.'

'She would rather hear about herself.'

'I've done that, too. Perhaps I haven't done it enough. I've given her
chocolates and flowers. What else ought I to do?'

Her voice, very calm and clear after his spluttering, said, 'Not too
much.'

'Oh!' This was a new idea. 'Oh! I never thought of that. Why--'

She interrupted his usual cry. 'Women are naturally cruel.'

'Are they? I didn't know that either.' He swallowed the information
visibly. She could almost see the process of digestion. 'Oh!' he said
again.

'They don't mean to be. They are simply untouched by a love they don't
return.' She added thoughtfully: 'And inclined to despise the lover.'

'That's it,' he mourned. 'She despises me.' And in a louder voice he
demanded, not of Rose Mallett, but of the mysterious world in which he