“You see . . . you see . . .” she gasped out in her torn voice. She loves me! thought Wilfred in a maze. She feels passion for _me_! What a fatuous brute I have been! . . . Still, the bars had to be smashed down one way or another! “Now you see what kind of a woman I am! . . . You’d better go!” “I don’t think any of the worse of you,” said Wilfred, smiling to himself. Careless of her ugly, tear-stained face, she flung around, and stamped her foot. “Don’t sit there and sneer!” she cried. “It’s intolerable!” “Sneer . . . !” he echoed indignantly. “Disinterested!” cried Frances Mary. “Oh, Heavens! . . . I don’t think much of it! Your so-called disinterestedness is revolting to me! You talk by rote! Prating of love and passion! What do you know about either? You’re light! What is passion to you? An interesting experience! You have suffered, you say. You’re quite healed, aren’t you, and ready for fresh experiments? You know nothing of the agony of repression. For years! For years! Everything comes out of you like a child’s babbling. You know nothing of the wolves that tear. . . . Oh, why don’t you go?” Wilfred recognized the element of truth in her portrait of him, but was not dismayed. He could no longer repress the delighted grin. “I’m not afraid of your wolves,” he said. “. . . I hail them!” “Be quiet!” cried Frances Mary. But the new quality in his grin arrested her. She stared; her angry face all at a pause. Wilfred stood up. “Don’t come near me!” she cried sharply. He laughed outright. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go. But this is not the end, of course.” She drew the old veil over her face. But it was somewhat torn now. Picking up the fallen chair, she set it on its feet. “I’ll never marry you now!” she said with extreme bitterness. “However it might be for your good! Women can’t forget things as conveniently as men seem to do. This scene would always be present with me. Even when you began to love me—as no doubt you would! no doubt you would! having resolved upon it. I should always be remembering how you decided beforehand that it would be a fine thing for you if you could bring yourself to it!” She doesn’t mean a word of it! he thought with infinite relief and delight. She’s no better than me! He said: “You’re talking pure romantic nonsense! You might have got it out of one of my stories! . . . You’ve got something to learn too!” “From your experience?” she asked with bitter nostrils. * * * * * Wilfred walked along Fifty-Ninth street, bemused with wonder. How extraordinary! How extraordinary! . . . Well, after all I didn’t do so badly, considering . . . ! PART FIVE: HUSBANDS PART FIVE I Elaine Kaplan was writing a letter in the room that the servants called Madame’s boudoir; but Elaine called it her sitting-room. Boudoir was a word she detested. There was a knock at the door.