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 the other Saturday?" said Harriet. ""I do hope you weren't sitting waiting for him."

"Well—er—yes, we did wait up a while for him."

"Oh, but what a shame! But you know by now he's the most undependable creature on earth. I wish you'd be angry with him. It's no good what I say."

"No," said he—the peculiar slow Cockney no—"I'm not angry with him."

"But you should be," cried Harriet. "It would be good for him."

"Would it?"? smiled Jack. His eyes were dark and inchoate, and there seemed a devil in his long, wiry body. He did not look at Somers.

"You know of course what happened?" said Harriet.

"Er—when?"

"When Lovat went to see Mr Cooley."

"Er—no."

Again that peculiar Australian no, like a scorpion that stings with its tail.

"Didn't Mr Cooley tell you?" cried Harriet.

"No." There was indescribable malice in the mono-syllable.

"Didn't he—!" cried Harriet, and she hesitated.

"You be quiet," said Lovat crossly, to her. "Of course you'd have to rush in."

"You think angels would fear to tread in such a delicate mess?" said Harriet, with a flash of mocking wit that sent a faint smile up Jack's face, like a red flame. His nose, his mouth were curiously reddened. He liked Harriet's attacks. He looked at her with dark, attentive eyes. Then he turned vaguely to Somers.

"What was it?" he asked.

"Nothing at all new," said Somers. ""You know he and I start to quarrel the moment we set eyes on one another."

"They might be man and wife," mocked Harriet, and again Jack turned to her a look of black, smiling, malicious recognition.

"Another quarrel?" he said quietly.

But Somers was almost sure he knew all about it, and had only come like a spy to take soundings.

"Another quarrel," he replied, smiling, fencing. "And once more shown the door."