"I am very sorry," Geoffrey stammered after the box had fallen.
"Never mind," she said, "accidents will happen."
But Geoffrey was rapt in the contemplation of what he saw before him—some score or more of ivory discs, each of which contained some painting; many of them appeared to be portraits.
Geoffrey picked up one of them and examined it curiously. He was regarding an ivory circle with a dark face upon it, the face of a beautiful fury.
"Why, this is you," Geoffrey cried. "If you could only give way to a furious passion, it is you to the life."
"I had forgotten that," Marion gasped. "Of course, it is not me. See how old and stained the ivory is; hundreds of years old, it must be. Don't ask any more questions, but go and throw that thing in the sea. Never speak of the subject again."
Geoffrey promised. He strode out of the house and along the terrace. As he was descending the steps, a hand touched his arm. Ralph stood there.
"Give it me," he said, "at once."
"Give you what, uncle?"
"That ivory thing you have in your pocket. I felt certain it was there. Give it to me. Assume you have cast it over the cliffs. Marion will be satisfied."