their conscious grin their grin; hang it, yes, the screw was on Mora's lover. Puddick's recognition of his sympathy—well, proved that he needed something, though he didn't need interference from the outside; which couldn't, any way they might arrange it, seem delicate enough. Jane's obtrusion of her four hundred and fifty affected Traffle thus as singularly gross; though part of that association might proceed for him, doubtless, from the remark in which his exasperated sensibility was, the next thing, to culminate.
"I'm afraid I can't explain to you," he first said, however, "why it is that, in spite of my indoctrination, my wife fails to see that there's only one answer a gentleman may make to the so intimate question she put to you."
"I don't know anything about that; I wasn't at all making her a conventional reply. But I don't mind assuring you, on my sacred honour,—"
So Walter Puddick was going on, but his host, with a firm touch of his arm, and very handsomely, as that host felt, or at least desired to feel, wouldn't have it. "Ah; it's none of my business; I accept what you've said, and it wouldn't matter to you it I didn't. Your situation's evidently remarkable," Traffle all sociably added, "and I don't mind telling you that I, for one, have confidence in your tact. I recognised, that day I went to see you, that this was the only thing to do, and have done my best, ever since, to impress it on Mrs Traffle. She replies to me that
