It was by no means easy, for she and Henri had long lived in what was little better than a state of open hostility, and she had been at no pains to conceal the utter disregard and contempt she felt for him. He, of course, had resented it; her change of demeanor now awoke his suspicion. He was a vain and shallow person, however; his conceit was thoroughly Latin, and Hilda's perseverance was in a way rewarded. Slowly, grudgingly he gave ground before her subtle advances—they were, in fact, less advances on her part than opportunities for him—he experienced a feeling of triumph and began to assume a masterful air that was indeed trying to one of her disposition. Before his friends he boasted that his energetic defense of his honor had worked a marvel in his home; in her presence he made bold to take on a swagger and an authority hitherto unknown.
Hilda stood it, with what cost no one could possibly understand. In some manner she managed to convey the idea that he dominated her and that she cringed spiritually before him. She permitted him occasionally to surprise a look of bewilderment, almost of fright, in her eyes, and this tickled the man immensely. With a fatuous complacency, thoroughly typical, he told himself that she feared and respected him—was actually falling in love with him all over again. When he felt the impulse to scout this idea he went to his mirror and examined himself critically, Why not? he asked himself. He was very pleasing. Women had always been wax in his hands; he had a personality, an air, an irresistible something that had won him many conquests. It seemed not unlikely that Hilda had been shocked into a new and keener realization of his many admirable qualities and was ready to make up, if, or when, he graciously chose to permit her.
On the very evening that Colonel Cavendish and his wife were discussing Pierce Phillips' affair, Courteau, feeling in a particularly jubilant mood, decided to put the matter to a test; therefore he surprised his wife by walking into her room unannounced.
"My dear," he began, "it's high time we had a talk."
"Indeed!" said she. "What about?"
"About you, about me, about our affairs. Are we husband and wife or are we not? I ask you."
With a queer flicker of her eyelids she answered: "Why—of course. You have appeared to forget it sometimes, but—"
"No reproaches, please. The past is gone. Neither of us is without blame. You've had your fling, too, but I've shown you that I'm made of stern stuff and will tolerate no further foolishness. I am a different Courteau than you ever knew. I've had my rebirth. Now then, our present mode of life is not pleasing to me, for I'm a fellow of spirit. Think of me—in the attitude of a dependent!"
"I share generously with you. I give you money—"
"The very point," he broke in, excitedly. "You give; I accept. You direct; I obey. It must end now, at once. I cannot play the accompaniment while you sing. Either I close my eyes to your folly and forgive, utterly—either we become man and wife again and I assume leadership—or I make different plans for the future."