"I mean it," came uncompromisingly, in answer to Hamilton's look of horror. "I mean every word of it!"
"Cicily," the husband besought, as a great dread fell on his soul, "remember, you are my wife—my love!"
"Yes, I'm one of them." The tone was icy; the gaze fixed on his face was unwavering.
But this utterance was too sinister to be borne. The pride of the man in his own faithfulness was outraged. His voice was low when he spoke again, yet in it was a quality that the young wife had never heard before. It frightened her sorely, although she concealed its effect by a mighty effort of will.
"That is an insult to you and to me, Cicily. It is an insult I cannot—I will not—permit."
It was evident to Cicily that she had carried the war in this direction far enough; she hastened her retreat.
"Oh, I didn't say that you were in love with another woman," she explained, with an excellent affectation of carelessness. "For that matter, I know very well that you're not." Then, as Hamilton regarded her with a face blankly uncomprehending, she went on rapidly, with something of the venomous in her voice: "Sometimes, I wish you were. Then, I'd fight her, and beat her. It would give me something to do." She paused for a moment, and laughed bitterly. "Oh, please, Charles, do fall in love with some other woman, won't you?"
Hamilton started toward the telephone in the hall.
"It's the doctor you want, not the automobile," he called over his shoulder.