Augustine met her at dinner. He was pale but he seemed composed. They spoke little. He said, in answer to her questioning, that he had quite liked Lady Elliston; yes, they had had a nice talk; she seemed very friendly; he should go and see her when he next went up to London. Amabel felt the crispness in his voice but, centered as she was in her own self-mastery, she could not guess at the degree of his. After dinner they went into the drawing-room, where the old, ugly lamp added its light to the candles on the mantel-piece. Augustine took his book and sat down at one side of the table. Amabel sat at the other. She, too, took a book and tried to read; a little time passed and then she found that her hands were trembling so much that she could not. She slid the book softly back upon the table, reaching out for her work-bag. She hoped Augustine had not seen, but, glancing up at him, she saw his eyes upon her. Augustine's eyes looked strange tonight. The dark rims around the iris seemed to have expanded. Suddenly she felt horribly afraid of him. They gazed at each other, and she forced herself to a trembling, meaningless smile. And when she smiled at him he sprang up and came to her. He leaned over her, and she shrank back into her chair, shutting her eyes. "You must tell me the truth," said Augustine. "I can't bear this. _He_ has made you unhappy.--_He_ comes between us." She lay back in the darkness, hearing the incredible words. "He?--What do you mean?" "He is a bad man. And he makes you miserable. And you love him." She heard the nightmare: she could not look at it. "My husband bad? He is good, more good than you can guess. What do you mean by speaking so?" With closed eyes, shutting him out, she spoke, anger and terror in her voice. Augustine lifted himself and stood with his hands clenched looking at her. "You say that because you love him. You love him more than anything or anyone in the world." "I do. I love him more than anyone or anything in the world. How have you dared--in silence--in secret--to nourish these thoughts against the man who has given you all you have." "He hasn't given me all I have. You are everything in my life and he is nothing. He is selfish. He is sensual. He is stupid. He doesn't know what beauty or goodness is. I hate him," said Augustine. Her eyes at last opened on him. She grasped her chair and raised herself. Whose hands were these, desecrating her holy of holies. Her son's? Was it her son who spoke these words? An enemy stood before her. "Then you do not love me. If you hate him you do not love me,"--her anger had blotted out her fear, but she could find no other than these childish words and the tears ran down her face. "And if you love him you cannot love me," Augustine answered. His self-mastery was gone. It was a fierce, wild anger that stared back at her. His young face was convulsed and livid.