“No. It isn't at all necessary. Besides, I've changed my mind. I'd like you to remain. I do not want to mystify you any farther, Mrs Desmond, but I now confess to you that I am losing my courage. Don't ask me to tell you why, but------” “I suppose it is the custom with those who play with fire. They shrink when it burns them.” Mrs Brood looked at her steadily. The rebellious, sullen expression died out of her eyes. She sighed deeply, almost despairingly. “I am sorry you think ill of me, but yet I cannot blame you for considering me to be a--a------ I'll not say it. Mrs Desmond, I--I wish I had never come to this house.” “Permit me to echo your words.” “You will never be able to understand me. And, after all, why should I care? You are nothing to me. You are merely a good woman who has no real object in life. You------” “No real object in life?” “Precisely. Sit down. We will wait here together, if you please. I--I _am_ worried. I think I rather like to feel that you are here with me. You see, the crisis has come.” “You know, of course, that he turned one wife out of this house, Mrs Brood,” said Mrs Desmond deliberately. Something like terror leaped into the other's eyes. The watcher experienced an incomprehensible feeling of pity for her--she who had been despising her so fiercely the instant before. “He--he will not turn me out,” murmured Yvonne, and suddenly began pacing the floor, her hands clenched. Stopping abruptly in front of the other woman, she exclaimed: “He made a great mistake in driving that other woman out. He is not likely to repeat it, Mrs Desmond.” “Yes--I think he _did_ make a mistake,” said Mrs Desmond calmly. “But he does not think so. He is a man of iron. He is unbending.” “He is a wonderful man--a great, splendid man,” cried Yvonne fiercely. “It is I--Yvonne Lestrange--who proclaim it to the world. I cannot bear to see him suffer. I------” “Then, why do you------” “Ah, you would say it, eh? Well, there is no answer. Poof! Perhaps it will not be so bad as we think. Come! I am no longer uneasy. See! I am very calm. Am I not an example for you? Sit down. We will wait together.” They sat far apart, each filled with dark misgivings, though radically opposed in their manner of treating the situation. Mrs Desmond was cold with apprehension. She sat immovable, tense. Yvonne sank back easily in a deep, comfortable chair and coolly lighted a cigarette. It would have been remarked by a keen observer that her failure to offer one to her visitor was evidence of an unwonted abstraction. As a matter of fact, inwardly she was trembling like a leaf. “I suppose there is nothing to do,” said Mrs Desmond in despair, after a long silence. “Poor Lydia will never forgive herself.” Yvonne blew rings of smoke toward the ceiling. “I dare say you think I am an evil person, Mrs Desmond.” “Curiously, Mrs Brood, I have never thought of you in that light. Your transgressions are the greater for that reason.”