"Don't begin about Mrs Desmond, please!" She drew her hand away with a touch of impatience. "She is everything that is perfect, of course. But I hate her; and I believe I always shall."
Lenox turned on his elbow and looked up into her face.
"My dear . . . I can't let you speak so of my best friend. We owe her everything, you and I. You shall hear about it all one of these days. And apart from that, she is . . ."
"Yes, yes. I can see what she is, clearly enough. A superbly beautiful woman, outside and in, who possesses a good deal of influence over you. I can be just to her, you see, if I am . . . jealous."
"Jealous? Nonsense. The word is an insult to her, and to me."
She reddened under the reproof in his tone.
"Forgive me. I didn't mean it so. I am only afraid that after close intimacy with her you will find—your wife rather a poor thing by comparison. Just the 'eternal feminine' with all an artist's egoism, and more than the full complement of faults."
She spoke so simply, and with such transparent sincerity, that again he turned on her abruptly; his smouldering passion quickened to a flame.
"Quita . . . you dear woman . . . if I could only make you realise . . . !"
But long repression, and the knowledge that was poisoning his perfect hour, constrained him to reticence. He dared not let himself go.