Hugh Benton kicked at the rug under his feet. He could not bring himself at first to look into the face of his suffering wife. Then his shoulders straightened and his level glance came to meet her defiantly. His words were cold, calm.
“If you are referring to Mrs. DeLacy,” he observed, “then let me tell you, that you yourself were the indirect cause of forcing me into the realization of all that she meant to me.”
“You expect me to believe that, Hugh?” There was a suggestion of a sneer on her drawn lips.
“Believe it, or not, as you please,” he answered nonchalantly, “but up to the afternoon when you took it upon yourself so unjustly to insult her, I had merely liked and admired Mrs. DeLacy.”
“Indeed! I am consumed with curiosity to know just how I happened to play the rôle of Cupid in your love affair?” Marjorie Benton’s dignity was coming to her aid.
“Sarcasm won’t succeed in getting us anywhere, Marjorie,” was Hugh’s stern comment. “Yours has lost the power to sting me in the least. But if you wish to know, after you had treated Mrs. DeLacy so shamefully, I called upon her the following evening, determined to offer some excuse for you,” he went on serenely. “It was then that we discovered for the first time our exact sentiments toward one another.”
“How delightfully romantic!” The wife laughed hysterically. “You—you really are foolish enough to think she cares for you? You are a rich man, Hugh.”
His impatience increased. “Please permit me to be the judge,” he advised, in a satisfied manner. “I want to be perfectly frank and honest with you, Marjorie—that is why I have stated the absolute truth to you.”
She shook her head as she replied bitterly: “You are indeed kind to me.”
“I don’t want to be cruel, but I see that you refuse to permit me to be anything else,” he snapped impatiently. “The problem is this: I love her! What are you going to do about it?”