“It was at Venice, then, if you will have it,” he answered, beside himself. “At Venice, on a Shrove Tuesday, in Carnival time, five years ago. Are you satisfied now? That is the first half of the riddle.”
His pale cheek grew whiter, his head fell back upon the velvet cushion, his whole frame collapsed. He was as near fainting as a strong man could be.
Eve rushed to a little table, where she was privileged to write her letters now and then—business letters, she called them, chiefly relating to spending money. Here, among silver ornaments and fanciful cutlery, there was a big bottle of eau de Cologne, which she half emptied over her husband’s temples.
“Thanks,” he murmured. “You meant it kindly; but you’ve almost blinded me. I’m all right now. It was only a touch of vertigo. I’ve had no luncheon; and a man can’t live upon tobacco and emotional arguments.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
“CLOSER AND CLOSER SWAM THE THUNDER-CLOUD.”
Eve was very sorry for her husband after that tragical scene in the study; but what profiteth a jealous wife’s sorrow if she is unconvinced; if heart and brain are still racked with doubts and angry questionings, while her calmness, her submission are only on the surface, the subterranean fires still burning?
Vansittart took a high hand with the woman he loved. There must be no more quarrels, he told himself. He could not control his tongue even in his own interests, if she were to goad him any further. In their next encounter the secret would explode. He could not live this slave’s life for ever. It was not in him to go on prevaricating and fencing with the truth.
He told her, gently but firmly, that she must torment him no more with false imaginings. If she could not believe in his fidelity it would be wiser for them to part. Better to be miserable asunder, than to live together in an atmosphere of distrust.
At this hint of parting she flamed up, her doubt changed for a moment to conviction.