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had been stoned to death. They thought he was mad. A West Highland terrier he was; such a pretty little fellow. They spoiled him horribly.’

Suddenly, while he spoke, thus dryly, Monica saw that strange hot tears had sprung to his eyes. She put her hands before her face, ‘Oh. Don’t.—Don’t.’ She did not know what it was she begged him not to do. ‘I can’t bear it,’ she murmured. ‘There can’t be anything worse.’

‘No; there can’t, can there?’ said Ingpen. ‘And I ought to have had him on a lead. It happened twenty years ago, but I wake up in the night and think of it.—Well, good-bye.’

He was gone and she had not uncovered her face. Trembling suddenly, spent, she went to her writing-bureau, sank on the chair and leant her forehead on her hands. What did it mean? What was she to do? Must their friendship be stoned to death? She sat there, for how long? motionless, except that from time to time she moved the papers on her desk—glancing at them from under her hand: Edith’s letter about the invalid child;—she must answer that; it had to be sent to the sea: the coal bill;—it must be cut down; the kitchen range was very wasteful; it might save money to get a new one: the tickets for the English Association lecture and the