"How do I know? It was apparent when she fancied I had insulted her and turned to you for protection."
Karl angrily slammed down an ash tray he had picked up in his nervous fingers and began to pace the floor. Millar went on in a light tone:
"She does not love her husband. He must be a genius or a very commonplace man. Marriage always is a failure with such men. Common men live so low that women are afraid some one may steal into their lives at night through a cellar window. Genius—well, genius lives on the top floor, up toward the clouds, and with so many gloomy steps to climb and no elevator, it's very uncomfortable for a pretty woman. Her ideal is one easy flight of stairs to comfortable living rooms on the first floor."
Karl maintained silence, and continued to walk the floor. He looked at his watch and started toward the door of the reception-room leading into the hall, which was locked.
"This is the second time I have seen madam's shoulders," Millar remarked, casually, blowing cigarette rings in the air.
"What do you mean?" Karl demanded, stung to speech by jealousy.
"Ah, I saw them first in Paris, at the Louvre, fashioned of snow-white marble. They were the shoulders of Venus. Am I right, Karl?"
"I don't know," the artist snapped.
"Well, you must take my word for it, then," Millar said lightly. "I have seen both. And since Alcamenes I have known but one sculptor who could form such wonderful shoulders."
"Who?" Karl asked, turning to him.