"Not at all. I have no feelings."

"It meant either devilry or disease." Tyson's eyes twinkled wickedly as

he stroked his blonde mustache. He felt a diabolical delight in teasing

Miss Batchelor. There was a time when Miss Batchelor had admired Tyson.

He was not handsome; but his face had character, and she liked character.

Now she hated him and his face and everything belonging to him, his wife

included. But there was no denying that he was clever, cleverer than any

man she had ever met in her life.

"Even a great intellect"--here Tyson looked hard at Miss Batchelor, and

her faded nervous face seemed to shrink under the look--"is a great

misfortune--to a woman. Look at my wife now. She has about as much

intellect as a guinea-pig, and the consequence is she is not only happy

herself, but a cause of happiness to others. There--see!"

Miss Batchelor saw. She saw Sir Peter Morley contending with the rector

for the honor of handing Mrs. Nevill Tyson her tea. They were joined by

Stanistreet. Yes, Stanistreet. The rector seemed to have drawn the line

nowhere that day. There was no mistaking the tall figure, alert and

vigorous, the lean dark face, a little eager, a little hard. And that

very clever woman Miss Batchelor sat hungry and thirsty--very hungry and

very thirsty--and Tyson stood behind her stroking his mustache. He was

not looking at her now, nor thinking of her. He was contemplating that

adorable piece of folly, his wife.




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