“You’re an hysterical ass,” I said a little impatiently. “Let me give you a whisky-and-soda, and you’ll feel better.”
I supposed that for some reason or other—and Heaven knows what ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves—Dirk had got it into his head that his wife cared for Strickland, and with his genius for blundering he might quite well have offended her so that, to anger him, perhaps, she had taken pains to foster his suspicion.
“Look here,” I said, “let’s go back to your studio. If you’ve made a fool of yourself you must eat humble pie. Your wife doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman to bear malice.”
“How can I go back to the studio?” he said wearily. “They’re there. I’ve left it to them.”
“Then it’s not your wife who’s left you; it’s you who’ve left your wife.”
“For God’s sake don’t talk to me like that.”
Still I could not take him seriously. I did not for a moment believe what he had told me. But he was in very real distress.
“Well, you’ve come here to talk to me about it. You’d better tell me the whole story.”
“This afternoon I couldn’t stand it any more. I went to Strickland and told him I thought he was quite well enough to go back to his own place. I wanted the studio myself.”
“No one but Strickland would have needed telling,” I said. “What did he say?”