Mr. Pratt rested his hand on the back of a chair. It seemed as though, without some support of that kind, he could not stand. Mr. Pownceby advanced to him.
"Mr. Pratt, give me your hand."
Mr. Pratt gave it to him, it would seem, mechanically. The two men stood looking at each other in silence--the one almost without a scratch, the other a battered ruin. While they were so engaged the latch of the French window was opened from without, the blind was thrust aside, and a lady entered. It was Mrs. Pratt. When she saw what met her eyes she stared, which, as a breach of good manners, was, under the circumstances, excusable.
"Mr. Pownceby! Gilead! What have you been doing?"
"I've been whipping him," said Mr. Pratt. "I must be off my ordinary, for I never whipped a man that way before."
Mr. Pownceby slipped on his jacket. He helped Mr. Pratt to put on his.
"It's my fault, Mrs. Pratt. When I told your husband of our little experiment and that I found myself unable to release you from the hypnotic state which I had induced he thought I must have done you a serious injury, and that he naturally resented."
Mrs. Pratt looked at Mr. Pownceby. There was a twinkle of intelligence in her sweet blue eyes.
"I see. Miss Haseltine is looking for you. You'll find her in the drawing-room."
"Thank you," said Mr. Pownceby. "I--I'll go and look for her."