"And what is every code and every sentiment in the world but an outcome of imagination?" he cried. "What is it but imagination that herds us off from the beasts? I'm satisfied to call it imagination. It tells me that I was worsted last night, and that I'm capable of better things if I try my luck again. I'm satisfied to follow its promptings—and demand my revenge!"
For a while Milbanke sat miserable and undecided; then under the goad of the other's eyes, he did an ill-judged thing. Fumbling nervously for his letter-case, he rose from his seat and walked across to the fireplace.
"There is nothing for you to revenge," he said agitatedly. "There was no play last night. It's cancelled. I cancel it."
With tremulous haste, he pulled out the letter-case, extricated Asshlin's cheque, and dropped it into the fire.
There was a pause—a pause of tremendous moment—in which he stood aghast at his own deed. Then Asshlin turned on him, his face purple and convulsed with rage.
"You dare to insult me? You dare to insult me in my own house? You dare to imply that it was the money—the damned money, that I wanted to win back?"
Milbanke looked up sharply.
"Good God, no!" he exclaimed with unwonted vehemence. "Such a thought never entered my mind."
"Then what's the meaning of all this? What is it all driving at?"
Asshlin's hard, handsome face was contorted by passion and his hands shook.