"Why not?" he asked with a surprised smile.
As he spoke, Marjory's hesitation ended; she joined Adela and the Baron.
"How rude you are!" exclaimed Mrs. Dennison angrily, "you asked me to come out with you."
"So I did. By Jove, so I did! But you don't walk, do you? And I feel rather like a walk now."
"Oh, if you prefer her society——"
"Her prattle," he said, smiling, "amuses me. You and I always discuss high matters, you see."
"She doesn't prattle, and you know it."
He looked at her for a moment. He had gone so far as to rise, but he resumed his seat.
"What's the matter?" he asked tolerantly.
Maggie Dennison's lip quivered. The week that had passed had been a stormy one to her. There had been a breaking-down of barriers—barriers of honour, conscience, and pride. All she could do to gain or keep her mastery she had done. She had all but thrown herself at his feet. She hated to think of the things she had said or half-said; and she had seen Marjory's eyes look wondering horror and pitying contempt at her. Of her husband she would not think. And she had won in return—she knew not what. It hung still in the balance. Sometimes he would seem engrossed in her; but again he would turn to Marjory or another with a kind of relief, as though she wearied him. And of her struggles, of the great humiliations she suffered, of all she sacrificed to him, he seemed unconscious. Yet, cost what it might, she could not let him go now. The screen of Omofaga was dropped; she knew that it was the man whose life she was resolute to fill; whether she called it love for him or what else mattered little; it seemed rather a mere condition of existence, necessary yet not sweet, even revolting; but its alternative was death.