Angela's hands were tingling with nervous pains while Eugene talked. Her eyes ached and her heart fluttered. She could not understand this dark, determined man, so savage and so resolute in his manner. Was this Eugene who was always moving about quietly when he was near her, getting angry at times, but always feeling sorry and apologizing? She had boasted to some of her friends, and particularly to Marietta, in a friendly, jesting way that she could wind Eugene around her little finger. He was so easy-going in the main, so quiet. Here he was a raging demon almost, possessed of an evil spirit of desire and tearing up his and hers and Suzanne's life for that matter, by the roots. She did not care for Suzanne, though, now, or Mrs. Dale. Her own blighted life, and Eugene's, looming so straight ahead of her terrified her.
"What do you suppose Mr. Colfax will do when he hears of this?" she asked desperately, hoping to frighten him.
"I don't care a damn what Mr. Colfax will or can do!" he replied sententiously. "I don't care a damn what anybody does or says or thinks. I love Suzanne Dale. She loves me. She wants me. There's an end of that. I'm going to her now. You stay me if you can."
Suzanne Dale! Suzanne Dale! How that name enraged and frightened Angela! Never before had she witnessed quite so clearly the power of beauty. Suzanne Dale was young and beautiful. She was looking at her only tonight thinking how fascinating she was—how fair her face—and here was Eugene bewitched by it, completely undone. Oh, the terror of beauty! The terror of social life generally! Why had she entertained? Why become friendly with the Dales? But then there were other personalities, almost as lovely and quite as young—Marjorie McLennan, Florence Reel, Henrietta Tenman, Annette Kean. It might have been any one of these. She couldn't have been expected to shut out all young women from Eugene's life. No; it was Eugene. It was his attitude toward life. His craze about the beautiful, particularly in women. She could see it now. He really was not strong enough. Beauty would always upset him at critical moments. She had seen it in relation to herself—the beauty of her form, which he admired so, or had admired. "God," she prayed silently, "give me wisdom now. Give me strength. I don't deserve it, but help me. Help me to save him. Help me to save myself."
"Oh, Eugene," she said aloud, hopelessly, "I wish you would stop and think. I wish you would let Suzanne go her way in the morning, and you stay sane and calm. I won't care about myself. I can forgive and forget. I'll promise you I'll never mention it. If a child comes, I'll do my best not to let it annoy you. I'll try yet not to have one. It may not be too late. I'll change from this day forth. Oh!" She began to cry.
"No! By God!" he said, getting up. "No! No! No! I'm through now. I'm through! I've had enough of fake hysterics and tears. Tears one minute, and wrath and hate the next. Subtlety! Subtlety! Subtlety! Nothing doing. You've been master and jailer long enough. It's my turn now. I'll do a little jailing and task-setting for a change. I'm in the saddle, and I'm going to stay there. You can cry if you want to, you can do what you please about the child. I'm through. I'm tired, and I'm going to bed, but this thing is going to stand just as it does. I'm through, and that's all there is to it."
He strode out of the room angrily and fiercely, but nevertheless, when he reached it, he sat in his own room, which was on the other side of the studio from Angelas, and did not sleep. His mind was on fire with the thought of Suzanne; he thought of the old order which had been so quickly and so terribly broken. Now, if he could remain master, and he could, he proposed to take Suzanne. She would come to him, secretly no doubt, if necessary. They would open a studio, a second establishment. Angela might not give him a divorce. If what she said was true, she couldn't. He wouldn't want her to, but he fancied from this conversation that she was so afraid of him that she would not stir up any trouble. There was nothing she could really do. He was in the saddle truly, and would stay there. He would take Suzanne, would provide amply for Angela, would visit all those lovely public resorts he had so frequently seen, and he and Suzanne would be happy together.
Suzanne! Suzanne! Oh, how beautiful she was! And to think how nobly and courageously she had stood by him tonight. How she had slipped her hand into his so sweetly and had said, "But I love him, Mrs. Witla." Yes, she loved him. No doubt of that. She was young, exquisite, beautifully rounded in her budding emotion and feeling. She was going to develop into a wonderful woman, a real one. And she was so young. What a pity it was he was not free now! Well, wait, this would right all things, and, meanwhile, he would have her. He must talk to Suzanne. He must tell her how things stood. Poor little Suzanne! There she was in her room wondering what was to become of her, and here was he. Well, he couldn't go to her tonight. It did not look right, and, besides, Angela might fight still. But tomorrow! Tomorrow! Oh, tomorrow he would walk and talk with her, and they would plan. Tomorrow he would show her just what he wanted to do and find out what she could do.