"You lie," said Langly.
Ledwith smiled. "No," he said wearily, "I don't. She admitted it to me."
"That is another lie."
"Ask her. She didn't care what she said to me any more than she cared, after a while, what she did to me. You made her yours, soul and body; she became only your creature, caring less and less for concealment as her infatuation grew from coquetry to imprudence, from recklessness to effrontery.... It's the women of our sort, who, once misled, stop at nothing—not the men. Prudence to the point of cowardice is the amatory characteristic of your sort.... I don't mean physical cowardice," he added, lifting his sunken eyes and letting them rest on Sprowl's powerful frame.
"Have you finished?" asked the latter.
"In a moment, Langly. I am merely reminding you of what has happened. Concerning myself I have nothing to say. Look at me. You know what I was; you see what I am. I'm not whining; it's all in a lifetime. And the man who is not fitted to take care of what is his, loses. That's all."
Sprowl's head was averted after an involuntary glance at the man before him. His face was red—or it may have been the ruddy evening sun striking flat across it.
Ledwith said: "You will marry her, of course. But I merely wish to hear you say so."
Sprowl swung on him, his thick lips receding: