"How I should like some rides," she said; "but I suppose I can't have them, not unless Maxwell Davison's still in Oxford."
Ian's face clouded.
"He's not," he returned, shortly; and knocked the ashes out of his pipe, hesitating as to how he should put what he had to say about Maxwell Davison.
Mildred put her hand over her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Suddenly the silence was broken by a burst of rippling laughter. Ian started; his own thoughts had not been so diverting.
"What's the joke, Mildred?"
"Oh, Ian, don't you know? Max made love to Milly and she—she bit him! Wasn't it frightfully funny?" She laughed again, with a more inward enjoyment.
"I didn't know you bit him, although he richly deserved it; but of course I knew he made love to you. How do you know?"
"It came to me just now in a sort of flash. I seemed to see him—to see her, floundering out of the canoe; and both of them in such a towering rage. It really was too funny."
Ian's face hardened.
"I am afraid I can't see the joke of a man making love to my wife."