"I know it," replied she. She was so seated that he was seeing her in profile.
"Yes—I did," he went on. He settled himself more deeply in the chair, crossed his leg. "And I am glad that I did."
She kept on at lacing the boot. There was nothing in her expression to indicate emotion, or even that she heard.
"I did it," continued he, "because I had the right. He invited it. He knew me—knew what to expect. I suppose he decided that you were worth taking the risk. It's strange what fools men—all men—we men—are about women. . . . Yes, he knew it. He didn't blame me."
She stopped lacing the boot, turned so that she could look at him.
"Do you remember his talking about me one day?" he went on, meeting her gaze naturally. "He said I was a survival of the Middle Ages—had a medieval Italian mind—said I would do anything to gain my end—and would have a clear conscience about it. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
"But you don't see why I had the right to kill him?"
A shiver passed over her. She turned away again, began again to lace the boot—but now her fingers were uncertain.
"I'll explain," pursued he. "You and I were getting along fine. He had had his chance with you and had lost it. Well, he comes over here—looks us up—puts himself between you and me—proceeds to take you away from me. Not in a square manly way but under the pretense of giving you a career. He made you restless—dissatisfied. He got you away from me. Isn't that so?"