“Yes, if the woman’s demeanour were such as you have described. But why should she be so callous? I do not think that is natural.”
“You do not know the woman,” began Andrew harshly. Then he stopped speaking abruptly, and a violent flush swept over his face.
“I know her as well as you do, my dear fellow,” rejoined Henley, laughing. “How you manage to live in your dreams! You certainly do create an atmosphere for yourself with a vengeance, and for me too. I believe you have an abnormal quantity of electricity concealed about you somewhere, and sometimes you give me a shock and carry me out of myself. If this is collaboration, it is really a farce. From the very first you have had things all your own way. You have talked me over to your view upon every single occasion; but now I am going to strike. I object to the conduct you have devised for Olive. It will alienate all sympathy from her; it is the behaviour of a devil.”
“It is the behaviour of a woman,” said Andrew, with a cold cynicism that seemed to cut like a knife.
“How can you tell? How can you judge of women so surely?”
“I study all strange phenomena, women among the rest.”
“Have you ever met an Olive Beauchamp, then, in real life?” said Henley.
The question was put more than half in jest; but Trenchard received it with a heavy frown.
“Don’t let us quarrel about the matter,” he said, “I can only tell you this; and mind, Jack, I mean it. It is my unalterable resolve. Either the story must proceed upon the lines that I have indicated, or I cannot go on with it at all. It would be impossible for me to write it differently.”
“And this is collaboration, is it?” exclaimed the other, trying to force a laugh, though even his good-nature could scarcely stand Trenchard’s trampling demeanour.