surgeon. "How you treat me matters
little——"

"It matters nothing. You are right.
It matters not that!" returned Barletti,
snapping his fingers close to the surgeon's
face. The latter stood like a rock.

"You had better take care," said he
quietly. "You might chance to touch me
if you did that again."

"And if so? Even if so, eh? Maledetta
canaglia che tu sei!"

Plew did not understand the words, but
the look and tone that accompanied them
were intelligible enough. He coloured
high, but spoke still in the same quiet
manner, that in its unaffected manliness
had a certain dignity.

"You have told your wife in my
presence that you had an antipathy to me—
why, Heaven knows!—and that you had
desired never to see me in your house.
Even had I known this, I do not think it
would have prevented me from coming——"

"Without doubt! Oh, without doubt!
He is pleasant, this buffone!"

"But I did not know it. And my errand
here to-night was—partly—to deliver a
message to your wife from her father."

"You lie!"

"Cesare!" cried Veronica, rising and
holding up her hands as though to shut
out the words from the surgeon's ears.

"Don't be afraid, Veronica," said Plew,
with a quivering lip. "I am not a child
to be carried away into passion by a vile
vulgar insult from one whom I despise."

"Be silent, then!" cried Cesare, turning
on her with savage fury. He spoke now
in his own language, and poured out a
torrent of opprobrious taunts and invectives
with the volubility of an angry lazzarone.

He was jealous of Mr. Plew. Wild and
incredible as the idea appeared to Veronica,
it nevertheless was so. Some jesting word
dropped by the vicar about Mr. Plew's old
adoration for his daughter had first
attracted his attention to the behaviour of
Veronica towards this man. He had been
struck by the unexampled fact of her taking
the trouble to write letters to him from
Shipley Magna. Why should she care to
write to Mr. Plew? Friendship? Bah!
He was not a fool. What friendship could
there be between a beautiful brilliant young
woman like his wife, and a man who,
however unattractive he might be in Cesare's
eyes, was still far from old, and, moreover,
had loved Veronica in years gone by?
Che, Che! If she did not love him, she
allowed him to make love to her. Cesare's
jealousy was alert and furious at the
thought. Then one night he comes home
unexpectedly and finds this man with his
wife—with his wife who had refused to go
out with him in spite of his urgent request
to her to do so. She had been complaining
of him, too, to this accursed doctor. Did
he not see the torn sleeve, the uncovered
arm? There was no reproach that could
lacerate a woman's feelings that he did not
heap on her in his fury.

"Oh, merciful Heaven!" she cried,
pressing her hands to her throbbing
temples, "this is more than I can bear.
Listen, Cesare. Since you are so
possessed with this insanity—yes, insanity!
I would say so with my dying breath—I
will tell you the truth. I cannot remain
with you. I have made up my mind to
separate from you and to live apart. You
may have all the money—all the wicked,
weary money; give me only enough to
live on, and let me go. I am broken, and
crushed. I only want peace."

"You hear the Signora Principessa!"
said Cesare, resuming for a moment his
mocking sneer. "You hear her! Cannot
you, you valued friend, persuade her to
be wise? I am her husband. Ah, I know
your English law! I am master, she is
slave. Cannot you advise her? But I fear
you are not yourself very wise! You gave
her wine. Do you not know that she has
too great a penchant for the wine? Or did
you perhaps teach her to love it, like the
rest of the Inglesi?"

"You are more base and contemptible
than I could have believed it possible for a
man to be. I shall not remain longer
beneath your roof. But I would have you to
know that this lady is not without friends
and protectors, and that the English law,
which you profess to know so well, does
not permit you to treat her with the gross
brutality to which I can bear witness."

"Giuro a Dio!" cried Cesare, in a transport
of fury. "This to me—to me! You
are perhaps her protector—cane
maledetto!"

"Don't go!" screamed Veronica, clinging
to the surgeon's arm, and cowering
away from her husband. "He will kill me
when you are gone!"

With a tremendous oath Cesare seized a
knife from the table, and made a thrust
at the surgeon. At the same instant
Veronica threw herself between the two
men, and the knife, glancing off Plew's
thick coat, was plunged into her side.

"O God! Veronica!" cried the surgeon,