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Rufus paused so long that at last she lifted those glorious eyes of hers in semi-scornful interrogation.

“What’s the matter?” she inquired. “Don’t you want it?”

He made an odd gesture as of one at a loss to explain himself. “Won’t you drink first?” he said, his voice very low.

“No, thank you,” said Columbine briskly. “I don’t like it.”

“Then–I don’t like it either,” he said.

“Don’t be silly!” she said. “Of course you do! I know you do! Take it, and don’t be ridiculous!”

But Rufus turned away with solid resolution. “No, thanks,” he said.

Columbine set down the tray again with a hint of exasperation. “You’re just like a child,” she said severely. “A great, overgrown boy, that’s what you are!”

“All right,” said Rufus, propping himself against the door-post.

“It’s not all right. It’s time you grew up.” Columbine picked up the full glass, and, carrying it daintily, advanced upon him. “I suppose I shall have to make you take it like medicine,” she remarked.

She stood against the door-post, facing him, upright, slender, exquisite as an opening flower.

“Drink, puppy, drink!” she said flippantly, and elevated the glass towards her guest’s somewhat grim lips.

The sombre blue eyes came down to her with something of a flash. And in the same moment Rufus’s great right hand disengaged itself from his pocket and grasped the slim wrist of the hand that held the wine.

“You drink–first!” said Rufus, and guided the glass with unmistakable resolution to the provocative red lips.

She jerked back her head to avoid it, but the doorpost against which she stood checked the backward movement. Before she could prevent it the wine was in her mouth.

She flung up her free hand and would have knocked the glass away, but Rufus could be prompt of action when he chose. He caught it from her and drained it almost in the same movement. Not a drop was spilt between them. He set down the glass on a shelf of the conservatory, and propped himself up once more with his hands in his pockets.

Columbine’s face was burning red; her eyes literally blazed. Her whole body vibrated as if strung on wires. “How–dare you?” she said, and showed her white teeth with the words like an angry tigress.

He looked down at her, a faint smile in his blue eyes. “But I don’t drink–alone,” he said in such a tone of gentle explanation as he might have used to a child.

She stamped her foot. “I hate you!” she said. “I’ll never forgive you!”

“A joke’s a joke,” said Rufus, still in the tone of a mild instructor.

“A joke!” Her wrath enwrapped her like a flame. “It was not a joke! It was a coarse–and hateful–trick!”

“All right,” said Rufus, as one giving up a hopeless task.

“It’s not all right!” flashed Columbine. “You’re a bounder, an oaf, a brute! I–I’ll never speak to you again, unless–you–you–apologise!”

He was still looking down with that vague hint of amusement in his eyes–the look of a man who watches the miniature fury of some tiny creature.

“I’ll do anything you like,” he said with slow indulgence. “I didn’t know you’d turn nasty, or I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Nasty!” echoed Columbine. And then her wrath went suddenly into a superb gust of scorn. “Oh, you–you are beyond words!” she said. “You had better get along to the bar and drink there. You’ll find your own kind there to drink with.”

“I’d rather drink with you,” said Rufus.

She uttered a laugh that was tremulous with anger. “You’ve done it for the first and last time, my man,” she said.

With the words she turned like a darting, indignant bird, and left him.

Someone was entering the drawing-room from the hall with a careless, melodious whistle–a whistle that ended on a note of surprise as Columbine sped through the room. The whistler–a tall, bronzed young man in white flannels–stopped short to regard her.

His eyes were grey and wary under absolutely level brows. His hair was dark, with an inclination–sternly repressed–to waviness above the forehead. He made a decidedly pleasant picture, as even Adam could not have denied.