“It was a mere invention—pure perjury—to save his life—your friend—my friend. What am I to say?
“Oh, my God, Gerard!” she burst out. “You are not in earnest—you are angry—saying this to try me, for some reason that I don’t understand.”
The thought of his belief in her sworn statement had never entered her mind during the most fear-racked moment. The fact dazed her. He shook his great shoulders impatiently.
“You had better give it up and answer my question.”
“I have answered it—my whole life with you has answered it.”
“It has,” he sneered. “And more fool I for not having taken the answer before. And I tell you, I was getting pretty sick of it—the eternal Hugh, Hugh—damn him!—in every sentence you uttered—the everlasting sight of him in the house——”
“But I thought he was as dear to you as I was!” broke in Irene, aghast.
“It suited your purpose to think so. I never told you so. I’m sick of it—utterly sick of it. Sick of your flim-flammeries of philosophy and the higher life and noble work in the world and all that rot. And now I’m heartily glad it’s over.”
“Over?” she echoed, falteringly.
“Yes, over. I’m not going to play the injured husband. I’m going to be free; to do what I like and live as I like, and you can go off with your lover and help him to write his measly poetry. It has been choking me for years. I’m going to get free of it all.”