"It won't do," he said; "it won't do. And you know it won't, don't you? This whole business is dead wrong—dead rotten. But you mustn't cry, do you hear? Don't be frightened. If there's trouble, I'll stand by you, of course. Hush, dear, the house is full of servants. Loosen your arms, Elena! It isn't a square deal to your husband—or to you, or even to me. Unless people have an even chance with me—men or women—there's nothing dangerous about me. I never dealt with any man whose eyes were not wide open—nor with any woman, either. Cary's are shut; yours are blinded."
She sprang up and walked to the fire and stood there, her hands nervously clenching and unclenching.
"When I tell you that my eyes are wide open—that I don't care what I do——"
"But your husband's eyes are not open!"
"They ought to be. I left a note saying where I was going—that rather than be his wife I'd prefer to be your——"
"Stop! You don't know what you're talking about—you little idiot!" he broke out, furious. "The very words you use don't mean anything to you—except that you've read them in some fool's novel, or heard them on a degenerate stage——"
"My words will mean something to him, if I can make them!" she retorted hysterically, "—and if you really care for me——"
Through the throbbing silence Desboro seemed to see Clydesdale, bulky, partly sober, with his eternal grin and permanently-flushed skin, rambling about among his porcelains and enamels and jades and ivories, like a drugged elephant in a bric-a-brac shop. And yet, there had always been a certain kindly harmlessness and good nature about him that had always appealed to men.
He said, incredulously: "Did you write to him what you have just said to me?"