“I’m only human, Madge; and if you could see yourself I think you’ld understand. I’ve tried, dear. I know all it means. I’ve tried and fought and jammed my nose to the stone. But it’s not the slightest good.” “But Nell,” cried Madge. “Nell . . .” Herrick shrugged his shoulders. “I know. It can’t be helped. I’m sorry. She’s awfully sweet. But—— Oh, Madge, there’s something about you that takes a man by the throat . . . something that——” “Stop, David, stop! You must be out of your mind. You can’t mean—— Oh, for God’s sake tell me you’re only pulling my leg.” “I wish to God I could,” said Herrick miserably. “But I can’t, my lady, I can’t. I love you, and there you are.” Madge caught her breath and clapped her hands to her face. “I’m wild—crazy about you, and that’s the truth. Of course it’s hopeless—grotesque. You’re Crispin’s wife, and Crispin’s one of the best. But I don’t suppose I’m the first that’s loved his wife. . . . You’ll tell him, of course. And say if he wants to kick me, I won’t try and cramp his style. He’s every right in the world. But I don’t think he will, because he’ll understand. He’s a man, you see . . . and he knows that it’s pretty easy to fall in love with you.” “But Nell, David, Nell. . . . Don’t you see what this means to her? You’re letting her down most frightfully. Why, man, it’ll break her heart. If it wasn’t for Nell, I wouldn’t care a kick. We’ld have a straight talk, and after a month——” “Month?” echoed David, with a bitter laugh. “Shows how much you understand. ‘After a month.’ . . . Good God, Madge, this isn’t an evening out. I’m finished . . . bent . . . broken. . . . You’ve shown me the precious fountain. I’ve drunk its water out of your blessed palms. I’ve drunk—_drunk_, my lady. . . . And you only drink once. I’m badged—branded, Madge, branded as your man. With me you stand for womanhood. Your smile, your voice, your hair, the light in your wonderful eyes——” “Oh, stop, stop,” wailed Madge. “How can you talk like this? You know it’s not the game. You know you’re wronging Nell . . . and Crispin . . . and me. If I’ve given you cause, God knows I never meant it. If . . .” Her voice broke, and she began to weep silently. Herrick set his teeth. “We’re nearly home,” he said. “Shall I tell him to drive round the Park?” “Yes—no—yes,” sobbed Mrs. Willoughby. “And—please don’t talk any more.” David gave the order and flung himself back in his seat. Presently with a shaking hand he lighted a cigarette. . . . By the time they were back at Park Place, Madge was reasonably composed. She descended quickly, waved her hand, and let herself in with a rush. Herrick told the cabman to go to the Club. Crispin was in the library, seated upon the floor, with a pipe between his teeth, brushing the Sealyham. His wife burst in tempestuously. “Crip, the most awful thing has happened.” “Impossible,” said Crispin calmly. “My word, how lovely you look. Of course, the way to see you is to sit at your feet.”