Presently Melrose stopped abruptly—in front of Lady Tatham.
"Where is Edith?" He bent forward peremptorily, his hand on the table, his eyes on the lady's face.
"At the Cape with her husband."
"Has she found him out yet?"
"There's nothing to find out. He's an excellent fellow."
"A stupid prig," said Melrose passionately. "Well, you did it!—You did it!"
"Yes, I did it." Lady Tatham rose quietly. She had paled, and after a minute's hesitation she held out her hand to Melrose. "Suppose, Edmund, we bury the hatchet. I should like to be friends with you and your wife, if you would allow it?"
The change of manner was striking. Up to this moment Lady Tatham had been, so to speak, the aggressor, venturing audaciously on ground which she knew to be hostile—from bravado?—or for some hidden reason? But she spoke now with seriousness—even with a touch of womanly kindness.
Melrose looked at her furiously.
"Lady Tatham, I advise you to leave us alone!"