Mordaunt was silent.
"She's horribly down in the mouth," Noel proceeded. "She never used to be before she married you. It's a pretty beastly thing to have to say, but someone ought to say it, and if I don't no one else will."
"Go on," said Mordaunt. "Your sense of duty does you credit."
"Don't be a beast! It isn't duty at all. I'm simply pointing out the obvious. I should think you could see it for yourself, can't you?"
Mordaunt brushed his hair in silence.
"It's got to stop anyhow," Noel went on with determination. "She's not to be bullied. It's worse than shabby,—it—it's damned mean to—to treat her as if—as if—" He became suddenly agitated and lost the thread of his discourse.
Mordaunt had laid down his brushes to listen. His eyes were gravely attentive. They held no indignation. "Go on," he said again. "You are quite right to use strong language if you consider the occasion requires it."
But Noel's flow of language had failed him. He sprang suddenly at his brother-in-law, and caught him by the shoulders. "Oh, do stop it, old chap!" he urged, with husky vehemence. "We all of us rely on you. And if you fail us—can't you see we're done for?"
Mordaunt looked down at him with a faint smile. "Perhaps I had better tell you what has happened," he said. "The trouble at the present moment is that Bertrand has robbed me, and has left in consequence."
"Great Scotland!" ejaculated Noel. "How much did he take?"