Though Edna scented his hostility, she was unprepared for the directness of his approach. "Edna, I'm astonished at the way you've been acting," he said in a strong, frank voice. "At first I couldn't believe it." "Believe what?" she demanded sharply. "You needn't pretend with me, Edna. I'm talking about Cary Sloane. Aside from any other consideration, I didn't think you could treat Uncle Robert----" "Now look here, Anson--" she began angrily, but his peremptory voice broke through hers: "--and your children in such a way. You've been married eighteen years, and you're old enough to know better." "You can't talk to me like that! You----" "Yes, I can. Uncle Robert has always been my best friend." He was tremendously moved. He felt a real distress about his uncle, about his three young cousins. Edna stood up, leaving her crab-flake cocktail untasted. "This is the silliest thing----" "Very well, if you won't listen to me I'll go to Uncle Robert and tell him the whole story--he's bound to hear it sooner or later. And afterward I'll go to old Moses Sloane." Edna faltered back into her chair. "Don't talk so loud," she begged him. Her eyes blurred with tears. "You have no idea how your voice carries. You might have chosen a less public place to make all these crazy accusations." He didn't answer. "Oh, you never liked me, I know," she went on. "You're just taking advantage of some silly gossip to try and break up the only interesting friendship I've ever had. What did I ever do to make you hate me so?" Still Anson waited. There would be the appeal to his chivalry, then to his pity, finally to his superior sophistication--when he had shouldered his way through all these there would be admissions, and he could come to grips with her. By being silent, by being impervious, by returning constantly to his main weapon, which was his own true emotion, he bullied her into frantic despair as the luncheon hour slipped away. At two o'clock she took out a mirror and a handkerchief, shined away the marks of her tears and powdered the slight hollows where they had lain. She had agreed to meet him at her own house at five. When he arrived she was stretched on a _chaise-longue_ which was covered with cretonne for the summer, and the tears he had called up at luncheon seemed still to be standing in her eyes. Then he was aware of Cary Sloane's dark anxious presence upon the cold hearth. "What's this idea of yours?" broke out Sloane immediately. "I understand you invited Edna to lunch and then threatened her on the basis of some cheap scandal." Anson sat down. "I have no reason to think it's only scandal." "I hear you're going to take it to Robert Hunter, and to my father." Anson nodded. "Either you break it off--or I will," he said. "What God damned business is it of yours, Hunter?" "Don't lose your temper, Cary," said Edna nervously. "It's only a question of showing him how absurd----"