"Do you mean to insult me?" asks Lauraine, rising from her seat, and looking steadily at him. He shrugs his shoulders.
"You are always so tragic. Insult you? No. Only before you question my actions, it might be as well to look at your own. Are they quite—blameless?"
She stands there, and all the colour fades from her face; her limbs tremble. "I will not affect to misunderstand you," she says slowly. "But——"
He interrupted her roughly. "Don't trouble to explain. Of course we all know you are sans reproche. Only don't turn the cold shoulder to other women, when you yourself are no better than they—seem. Were I a jealous husband I should have forbidden Keith Athelstone your presence long ere this."
"There would have been no need," she says proudly. "I am not a woman to forget honour and self-respect."
"Oh, fine words are easy," scoffs her husband. "To the untempted virtue is no merit. And although any one could see Keith Athelstone was making himself a fool about you, yet you never cared a straw for him. If you had——"
"Well?" she asks, very low, as he pauses.
He laughs again. "You would have been no better than—others, I suppose. What you call self-respect is only another word for cold-heartedness."
Lauraine thinks of the scene through which she has just passed. Cold-hearted? Well, if she be, she thanks God for the fact. That her husband should speak thus to her fills her with an intense shame. After all, would he have cared so very much, if—— The evil thought coils round her like a serpent, she feels sick and stifled, and full of pain and fear.
"I am going to my room," she says hurriedly. "Will you excuse me? I—I am not very well."