Irene listened, stupefied. He seemed some unutterable stranger that had obtained access to her presence, she knew not how. He thrust his hands into his pockets and turned away. The gesture was familiar. Times out of number he had stood so, looming huge between herself and the light. It touched a tender chord, brought back the Gerard she had known and worshipped. Again she flew to him, caught him by the lapels of his coat and broke into a loud cry.
“But Gerard—my husband—am I a woman capable of such a thing?”
He unloosened her hands and drew apart from her.
“All women are the same—Madonas or Messalinas.”
“Then Hugh——”
“I tell you I hate him,” said Gerard, vindictively.
Then, suddenly, beneath his furious anger Irene saw the man as he was, and her idol lay shivered at her feet.
“Was that why you never told me of his having saved your life?”
Taken aback for the moment, he looked at her enquiringly.
“Because you hated him and were jealous of him all the time?”