The croquet players called to him from the lawn. He could hear the click of the balls and the merry voices as he passed, but he paid no heed to them. Only in the dining-room did he stay his hasty steps. There, in front of the picture of Rose's husband, he paused with uplifted arm.
"Scoundrel!" he muttered, furiously; then striking his fist through the glass, he shattered the portrait, from the small twinkling eyes to its good-natured, sensuous mouth.
[CHAPTER XVII.]
THE SUBLIMEST THING IN THE WORLD.
"Ah, tragedy of lusty life! How oft
Some high emprise a soul divinely grips,
But as it crests, fate's undertow despoils!"
Theodore H. Rand.
Mrs. Nimmo was better the next morning, and, rising betimes, gave her son an early audience in her room.
"You need not tell me anything," she said, with a searching glance at him. "It is all arranged between you and the Acadien woman. I know,—you cannot stave off these things. I will be good, Vesper, only give me time,—give me time, and let us have no explanations. You can tell her that you have not spoken to me, and she will not expect me to gush."