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 of Le Mesurier's wife. He could have throttled him for the unctuous correctness of his appearance, for his conventional, meaningless good looks, for those empty, showy eyes of his, which the fools who believed in him called "flashing" and "intellectual;" he could have throttled him for the air of self-satisfaction, of complacency, breathed by his whole person; he could have throttled him for the amiable lie he had just told of Lily's anxiety for news of himself, her husband. All Lily was anxious to hear, of course, was that Shergold had obtained Le Mesurier's consent to the business proposition over which they had been corresponding for so long, and which to-day was the occasion of Shergold's visit.

But he concealed his rage, and only showed his surprise at hearing that Lily was again in Jersey. For one of the many subjects of disagreement between her and himself, one of their many causes of quarrel, had been her persistent detestation of Jersey.

Shergold explained: "Yes. I hadn't time to mention it in my last letter; but Lily left London on Monday, and has gone to some very nice rooms I was able to secure for her at Beaumont. In fact, my old rooms—you will remember them—when I was at the College."

"She might at least have gone home," said Le Mesurier, with bitterness, "since I'm not there to contaminate the place. Rozaine, as she knows, is always at her service."

"Ah, yes—of course—thank you—you are very kind. But the air at Rozaine is hardly sufficiently bracing. You see, it's on account of the boy. He has been overworking at his studies, and needs sea-bathing, tonic, ozone."

The impertinence of Shergold's thanks might have stung Le Mesurier to an angry retort, but that the mention of his little The Yellow Book—Vol. VII.