Her lower lip stiffened slightly, so slightly, indeed, that had I not been watching, I should not have noticed it.

She was silent. Her gaze was fixed out of the window. The pause was a rather awkward one. Then suddenly, after watching her for a few moments, I said with a smile:

"Forgive me, Mrs. Auberon, if I say that you do not appear—well, exactly anxious for your husband's recovery."

"What do you mean?" she cried, turning upon me, her dark eyes flashing in resentment.

"Nothing," I replied grimly. "Only—well, in some cases, you know, wives are a little tired—just a trifle weary of married life. That's all."

She bent forward in her chair, looking into my face with a fierce, intense expression.

"Ah! I see. Dr. d'Escombe—I see, now, that you are not one of those canting moralists, but a thorough-going man of the world. You judge the world by the world's standards. You have read the heart of a woman. You—you have read mine!" she admitted.

A footstep sounded outside in the tiled hall, and she started, fearing lest it should be the Captain returning.