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This plea of sudden jealousy on Laurence’s part was so absurd, so lacking in all foundation, that he really did not know what to think. Was it a clumsy excuse, perhaps, to conceal a fit of ... of temper? Surely his Laurence, his beloved Laurence, so angelic until now, could not possibly have a temper to conceal! Concealment and her frank little self should not even be mentioned in the same breath. These reflections only lasted a few seconds, but during that short time Laurence, satisfied by the evident success of her armed reconnaissance, had cast about for some means of escape from the impasse in which she had so stupidly placed herself, thanks to that upsetting encounter with Neville Moray, and had come to a decision.

In another moment she straightened up, dabbed her now perfectly dry eyes pathetically with her handkerchief, and, gliding from Basil’s grasp, began to look contrite.

“I’m sorry to have been so bad!” she murmured, piteously. “I don’t know what possessed me ... for, really, I don’t have those naughty fits often!”