But at that moment Francis Markrute came out of his room and Tristram let her go--panting.

He could not make a scene, and she went on, with her head set haughtily, to her room.
"I see you have been quarreling again," her uncle said, rather irritably: and then he laughed as he went down.
"I expect she will be late," he continued; "well, if she is not in the hall at five minutes to eight, I shall go on." And Tristram sat down upon the deep sofa on the broad landing outside her room, and waited: the concentrated essence of all the rage and pain he had yet suffered seemed to be now in his heart.
But what had it meant--that look of superb scorn?
She had no mien of a guilty person.
At six minutes to eight she opened the door, and came out.

She had simply flown into her clothes, in ten minutes! Her eyes were still black as night with resentment, and her bosom rose and fell, while in her white cheeks two scarlet spots flamed.
"I am ready," she said, haughtily, "let us go," and not waiting for her husband she swept on down the stairs, exactly as her uncle opened the library door.
"Well done, my punctual niece!" he cried genially.

"You are a woman of your word." "In all things," she answered, fiercely, and went towards the door, where the electric brougham waited.
And both men as they followed her wondered what she could mean..