"I should say, 'the woman—or the earl—tempted me, and I did eat.' I ate by request. And I'm entitled to a core to my apple. There isn't any core. So I have the right either to chuck the peel away and let it fall in the mud, or else to hang on to it, and make up the best way I can for what lacks."
"I should like to kill you, Garth," said Severance.
"Well, when we're both safely out of my wife's dressing-room and this theatre, I'll give you a chance to try."
The lids over the dark, Greek eyes flickered slightly. Between the two men was a memory, a picture: a room at the Belmore Hotel, with a table and some chairs overturned: a few spots of blood on a lavender tie: not the tie of Garth.
"Being out of her theatre wouldn't save Miss Sorel from scandal if we made fools of ourselves," Tony said.
"That's the sensible view," agreed Garth. "I'm at your service for war or peace. But the fact remains that I am Marise Sorel's husband, and as I'm not paid for taking on the job, you, Severance, have no concern with my conduct to her. The rest is between my wife and myself. If she wishes me to leave her I will do so now, at this moment—on my own terms. If she wishes me to stay by her side for appearance' sake, I'll stay—also on my own terms."
"What are your terms?" Tony's dry lips formed the words almost without sound.
"They'll be settled to-night between my wife and me. You have nothing whatever to do with them."
"If—if you fail in respect for her, you never get your million dollars when the time comes!" Severance almost sobbed.
"When the time comes—the time can decide," said Garth.