"You will find a small red leather case in my overcoat pocket. Bring it here."
The servant went out and he continued to Elsa:
"I know the reason of this marriage, but you—you don't know the reason, or——"
"Or what?"
"Or you don't want to know. Hence you are about to consent."
"Consent to what?" Elsa cried. "Don't beat around the bush. This is what I am trying to avoid. I am about to consent to become the wife of a man who loves another woman. And, what is more, I intend to go on my honeymoon with a man who has another woman in his heart—who leaves with this other woman everything he should bring to his wife—love, sympathy, enthusiasm, everything. You see, you did not know me."
Millar was unmoved by her vehement declaration. As the servant re-entered the room and handed him a small, red leather case, he said:
"I did not think this subject could excite you to such a degree."
"I don't want any one laughing at me," Elsa protested. "I want them all to understand that I know quite well the way I am going, and that I go that way proudly, fully conscious of it—that I know everything and yet I consent to be his wife."
"Why?" Millar asked, opening his little satchel.