"It is very kind. We shall be delighted—this afternoon we've an engagement, haven't we, Sigrid?"
It was all Mrs. Compton remembered clearly. Looking back on the scene, she had a vague recollection of her own voice flowing on ceaselessly over a seething inner conflict, of a pale face watching her, half in pity, half in gratitude. Presently, when they had gone, she flung herself down by Sigrid's empty chair and cried with misery and humiliation. And, when the last tears had been shed, she picked up the Dresden shepherdess and put her back in her place in the glass cabinet, and turned the key with an air of locking up evil genii. Then she thought of her husband for the first time.
"Poor old Archie!" she muttered remorsefully. "Poor Archie!"
Meantime, Barclay drove his showy cob towards the dâk-bungalow.
"So you've managed it," he said. "You've really managed. You're wonderful—even more wonderful than I thought."
She drew farther away from him.
"I have kept my part of the bargain."
He laughed.
"Which is fortunate for everyone concerned."
"Keep your part!"