The old mocking smile sprang to Asa Arnold’s face.
“Unconsciously, you’re amusing,” he derided. 208 “The old story of the mouse who forbids the cat.... You forget, man, she is my wife.”
Ichabod stood up, seemingly longer and gaunter than ever before.
“Good God, Arnold,” he flashed, “haven’t you the faintest element of pride, or of consistency in your make-up? Is it necessary for a woman to tell you more than once that she hates you? By your own statement your marriage, even at first, was merely of convenience; but even if this weren’t so, every principle of the belief you hold releases her. Before God, or man, you haven’t the slightest claim, and you know it.”
“And you––”
“I love her.”
Asa Arnold did not stir, but the pupils of his eyes grew wider, until the whole eye seemed black.
“You fool!” he accented slowly. “You brazen egoist! Did it never occur to you that others than yourself could love?”
Score for the little man. Ichabod had been pinked first. 209
“You dare tell me to my face you loved her?”