“It was what she called it—not I,” said Ingram from between his fists. Then he looked up. “She refused the idea of going abroad. Said she wasn't at all afraid of people talking. Said she wanted to work for me. Must be doing something, she said. I tell you, it was her idea from the beginning. And I do say, myself, that it was reasonable.” He searched for agreement in his friend's face, but got none. “It suited better,” he said presently, with indifference. “It suited better—in every way. I had to be here.”
“Why had you to be here, man?” Chevenix raised his voice. “What the devil did it matter to you, having her, where you were?”
“It mattered a lot. I like this place. It's mine. I've got duties up here. I'm a magistrate and all that.”
Chevenix was now very hot. “Magistrate be damned. Do you mean to tell me that you profess to love a woman, and turn her into a servant because you want to try poachers? And you talk about the sun in her hair! And then—upon my soul, Ingram, you sicken me.”
“You fool,” said Ingram. “I tell you it was her own idea. She loves the place. She loves it a lot more than she does me. It's been a continual joy to her. Why, where would she have been while I was in India—all that year—if she hadn't had all this in her hands? You don't know what you're talking about.”
His voice rang down his scorn. Chevenix began to stammer.
“You're hopeless, Nevile, utterly hopeless. Every word you say gives up your case. What's it to do with you whether she likes it or not? I'm not talking of her, but of you. You silly ass, don't you see where you are? You fall in love with a woman and make her your head housemaid. Then you say, Oh, but she likes it. It's not what she likes we're talking about; it's what you can bring yourself to do with her. Wait a bit now. There's more to it. You play about here, there, and all over the shop. Off you go for three months at a time, sky-larking, shooting antelope, pigeon-shooting, polo, and whatever. She sits here and minds the gardeners—she whom you saw with the sun in her hair! Year in, year out it goes on. Now here you are back from India. Good. You leave her for a year, and write to her twice—then you say, Why, where would she have been if she hadn't had something to do? The sun in her hair, hey? Love, my good chap! You don't know how to spell the word. You ought not to touch her shoe-string. You're not fit. By Gad, sir, and now I remember something! And it's the truth, it's the bitter, naked, grinning truth.” He did remember something. He saw her curled-back lip—he saw her fierce resentful eyes. He heard her say it: “I think he is like a beast. He wants to ravage me—like a beast.” “You've been judged, Nevile,” he said. “You've done for yourself. And now I'll go to bed.”
Ingram's face was very cloudy. He looked for a moment like quarrelling. “Do you mean to leave me like this?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Chevenix, “I do. I don't want to stop and hear you protest that you intend to marry her. Marry her! Why, man, if you'd meant to marry her, you'd have posted home express from Marseilles the moment you heard that you could do it. But no! You've got her there—in cap and apron—she'll keep. You know she's here—you have your fling. And you stop three days in Paris, and drop it to her casually, when you please, that you're a free man. Yes, by George, I do mean to leave you like this. You're best alone, by George. Good-night to you.”
He went smartly away; but he had worked himself into a shaking fit, could not have slept to save his life. A cigar at the open window was inevitable.