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had parted company with De Boys in the hall, and was now hurrying towards the music room, where Wrath was playing a fugue in masterly style. But Sophia was in no mood for harmony. She burst open the door, flounced in, and put her arms round her husband's neck.

"Tom," she said, "I have been reconsidering what you said this morning about making our marriage public. I know myself so well that I am sure I could never love you again if you did. There is not a correct bone in my body: it would kill me to be called Mrs. Wrath—simply kill me. I adore you and worship you and idolise you, although you are my husband. That I cannot help; but to let other people know it—oh, intolerable! I will not be a British matron. I will not be called virtuous. It is no one's business whether I am married or not—a lot of fussy, prying, evil-minded old women—let them talk! I think of them when I say, ' I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry ' —no wonder I make the whole house creep! Buh! And, Tom—you fascinating, lovely, wonderful creature, I have just been flirting with all my might, and by tomorrow I shall be madly in love! Compared with you he is a