automatic way, his mind whirling madly in other spheres, he cleaned the
pistols, shook the powder-flask to make certain that powder was still
there--he loved to pour out a few grains into his hand and show the
powder that had remained in the flask for generations, ever since the
pistols were last used--counted the caps, which he had counted many
times before, looked stupidly into the only empty compartment, only to
remember that there never had been any wads, and, finally, grasping one
of the pistols, took aim at a bulb on his writing-desk at the end of
the room.

He had been tricked, and robbed, and mocked. He could see the scene when
she had told Austin. He could hear Austin's pitiless laughter. He could
picture her mimicking his rough speech. He could picture them,
faithless, heartless, looking into each other's eyes.... Suddenly he
passed his hand over his forehead. Was he going mad? Hitherto he had
heard their voices in the dimness of imagination. Now he heard them loud
in vibrating sound. Was it real or imaginary? He drew deep,
panting breaths.

"Dick's not here," said Viviette's voice from the terrace. "He has
forgotten."

"Really, my dear, I don't very much care," Austin replied. "Where you
are, I am happy."

"I wish that telegram would come. It's quite time. Don't you think we
had better tell Dick to-day?"

"No, no. To-morrow."