Rivulets of cold water ran down Aspasia's back. She felt a sudden, awful premonition of relentless fate closing about her; of the cruelty of human beings to each other; something of the terror of the ignorant patient in the surgical ward.
"What would they want to do with Aunt Rosamond?" she faltered.
Sir Arthur shook his head again.
"Sometimes the only chance is a temporary retreat—temporary, we must hope and trust."
"You mean," she shrieked, and advanced on him with her small fists clenched; "shut up Aunt Rosamond, shut her up—— Never! You wicked, horrible old fool! What should you shut her up for? She's not mad. She's no more mad than I am. Why should you call her mad, just because she turned sick at the sight of you all guzzling dinner?"
"Hush, hush!" he cried.
"I don't care who hears me," she retorted, in the same high tones of sobbing indignation. "You were guzzling. Your nasty old Lady Aspasia positively gobbled, and so did that disgusting Frenchman with the pink head. I suppose she's mad because she told you the truth for once, upstairs? I'm glad. If some one had told you the truth before, it would have been better for everybody."
Upon which cryptic utterance she flung herself from the room, but popped in her head again for a last shot:
"Of course, if the doctor asks me why poor Aunt ever married you, I shan't quite know what to say—it's the only queer symptom she's ever shown, to my knowledge."
Sir Arthur sank into the armchair, speechless. Presently he sought for his handkerchief, and, with an exhausted hand, passed it across his beaded forehead. The ring of Lady Aspasia's laugh floated across the hall through the door which the girl had left ajar. The sound of that cheery, heart-whole mirth, the thought of that comfortable, healthy, everyday, high-born woman heightened the sense of his own utter dejection. Had he not made an irremediable mistake after all?