It was like a blow. He had last seen Hildegarde in Washington, and there Hildegarde had repeated her confession—that she loved him and could not marry him because she was fit to be no man’s wife. And he had wrung from her, or believed he had wrung from her, the admission that Cantor was the cause of her catastrophe.... And here he found her with the man, chaperoned by a chauffeur, playing golf as casually as if the man had a right to her companionship and friendship; as if he were not something that should be inexpressibly repulsive to her, terrible to contemplate.
Potter stopped fifty feet away from them and glared. It was unthinkable, searing. In his soul he could not believe that relations could have continued, yet what else did the fact indicate? Opaque blurs danced before his eyes; he felt a geyser of passion boiling up within him, a geyser of rage and horror, mingled with the agony of a love such as only a man of his temperament could know.
It was not given to him ever to count costs, to look to the future, to perceive results. Now he had but one thought—that Cantor was there, that he hated Cantor, that the Lord had delivered Cantor into his hands. He strode forward and confronted Hildegarde.
“What does this mean?” he demanded, hoarsely. “You here with this man!... My God! are you proud of this thing?... Defiled! Aren’t you satisfied with that? How you can endure to see him—”
Cantor was on his feet, amazed. “Here, Waite,” he said, “what’s this?”
Hildegarde stood beside him, white, very slender and boyish, an inferno of suffering in her eyes. “Potter.... Mr. Cantor,” she said, in a whisper.
Potter did not look at Cantor, was not ready for Cantor yet. He had first to show his scorn for Hildegarde, his revulsion from the conduct she had chosen for herself.
“It’s hideous,” he said, slowly. “There’s such a thing as shame.... You can go about with this man—when you ought to want to kill him.... This whelp....”
“Potter—what are you saying? What do you know?”
“If you please, Miss von Essen,” said Cantor, stepping between her and Potter. “Now talk to me,” he said, evenly. “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?”