We talk of tragic scenes in common life; this was one of them. The little room with its waxed, inlaid floor, the light falling bloodily in at the crimson curtains and throwing unreal shadows upon the spent fire, the disordered furniture, the unmade bed; and there were the two actors, suffering in their little sphere what only seems more suffering in prisons and upon scaffolds, and playing with each other's agonies as not more refined cruelty plays with racks and tortures.
"You are pleased, madame," said Ralph.
"No, I am wondering what has changed you. There are black circles around your eyes; you have not shaved; the bones of your cheeks are sharp like your chin, and you are yellow and bent like a dry leaf."
"I have had an excess of money lately. Being free to do as I like, I have done so."
She looked furtively around the room. "Somebody has gone away from here this morning—is it true?"
He laughed suggestively.
"I saw you with two girls last night; the company did you honor; it was one of them, perhaps."
"You guess shrewdly," he replied.
"This is her room now; it may be she will object to see me here."
"You are right," said Ralph Flare, with mock courtesy, rising up. "When you lived with me I permitted no one to visit me in your absence. My late friends will be vexed. You have finished the business which brought you here, and I must go to breakfast now."