She lay there a long time, unable to rise, though she was not fainting. Weakness had fastened upon her. But under her breath she kept on repeating one sobbing phrase:
“It isn’t fair! It isn’t fair—three men against one woman. They are so hard. They aren’t generous. It isn’t fair.”
At length Collingwood turned abruptly and walked down the beach. Kingsnorth came out of his stupor and pursued him.
“Collingwood,” he said earnestly, “if I were not such a blackguard myself, I’d call you one, for your treatment of your wife. She’s had no chance between us.”
“She can take care of herself, I think. My advice to you is to keep out of the matter.”
“How can I? I’ve been the cause of it.”
“You the cause!” Martin stared an instant and broke into a short, ugly laugh. “Do you suppose I care for that talk out there to-night? You did me a favor. What I care about is the part I’ve played for the last ten months. A devilish pretty dupe I’ve been.”
Kingsnorth recognized the futility of argument with a man whose self-love has been so sorely wounded. “You’ll see this thing differently when you cool down,” he remarked. “Don’t say anything more to your wife. She’s a noble woman, Martin, a damned sight too good for you, if you want the truth; and you’ve half killed her to-night. Hold in till you’ve had time to get your second thoughts. If you want to beat my face in, I’ll stand it. God! I’m certain it would be a relief.”
Martin’s reply was an inarticulate grunt, as he flung up the path to his own cottage. He charged up the steps through the lighted sala, and into the bedroom, expecting to find Charlotte there. The desire to quarrel was strong in him.
The empty room surprised him, and for an instant jolted his thoughts into a less combative vein. He went out and sat down on the veranda steps, chewing the end of an unlighted cigar, and expecting each minute to see her white-clad figure emerge from the dark line of the cocoanut grove. Gloomy thoughts seized upon his mind.