Mrs Brood looked at her steadily. The rebellious, sullen expression died out of her eyes. She sighed deeply, almost despairingly.
“I am sorry you think ill of me, but yet I cannot blame you for considering me to be a—a——— I'll not say it. Mrs Desmond, I—I wish I had never come to this house.”
“Permit me to echo your words.”
“You will never be able to understand me. And, after all, why should I care? You are nothing to me. You are merely a good woman who has no real object in life. You———”
“No real object in life?”
“Precisely. Sit down. We will wait here together, if you please. I—I am worried. I think I rather like to feel that you are here with me. You see, the crisis has come.”
“You know, of course, that he turned one wife out of this house, Mrs Brood,” said Mrs Desmond deliberately.
Something like terror leaped into the other's eyes. The watcher experienced an incomprehensible feeling of pity for her—she who had been despising her so fiercely the instant before.
“He—he will not turn me out,” murmured Yvonne, and suddenly began pacing the floor, her hands clenched. Stopping abruptly in front of the other woman, she exclaimed: “He made a great mistake in driving that other woman out. He is not likely to repeat it, Mrs Desmond.”
“Yes—I think he did make a mistake,” said Mrs Desmond calmly. “But he does not think so. He is a man of iron. He is unbending.”