“My dear man, why should you defend her? I am not accusing her. I am merely going into the ethics of the situation. If you can forget that Mrs Desmond is the wife of your friend and come to regard her as a servant in your establishment, no one will be more happy than I to have her about the place. She is fine, she is competent, she is a lady. But she is not my equal here. Can't you understand?” He was thoughtful for a moment. “I dare say you are right. The conditions are peculiar. I can't go to her and say that she must consider herself as--oh, no, that would be impossible.” “I should like to have Mrs Desmond as my friend, not as my housekeeper,” said his wife simply. “By Jove, and that's just what I should like,” he cried. “There is but one way, you know.” “She must be one or the other, eh?” “Precisely,” she said with firmness. “In my country, James, the wives of best friends haven't the same moral standing that they appear to have in yours. Oh, don't scowl so! Shall I tell you again that I do not mean to reflect on Mrs Desmond's virtue--or discretion? Far from it. If she is to be my friend, she cannot be your housekeeper. That's the point. Has she any means of her own? Can she----” “She has a small income, and an annuity which I took out for her soon after her poor husband's death. We were the closest of friends----” “I understand, James. You are very generous and very loyal. I quite understand. Losing her position here, then, will not be a hardship?” “No,” said he soberly. “I am quite competent, James,” she said brightly. “You will not miss her, I am sure.” “It isn't that, Yvonne,” he sighed. “Mrs Desmond and Lydia have been factors in my life for so long that---- But, of course, that is neither here nor there. I will explain the situation to her to-morrow. She will understand.” “Thank you, James. You are really quite reasonable.” “Are you laughing at me, darling?” She gave him one of her searching, unfathomable glances, and she smiled with roguish mirth. “Isn't it your mission in life to amuse and entertain me?” “I love you, Yvonne. Good God, how I love you!” he cried abruptly. His eyes burned with a sudden flame of passion as he bent over her. His face quivered; his whole being tingled with the fierce spasm of an uncontrollable desire to crush the warm, adorable body to his breast in the supreme ecstasy of possession. She surrendered herself to his passionate embrace. A little later she withdrew herself from his arms, her lips still quivering with the fierceness of his kisses. Her eyes, dark with wonder and perplexity, regarded his transfigured face for a long, tense moment. “Is this love, James?” she whispered. “Is this the real, true love?” “What else, in Heaven's name, can it be?” he cried. He was sitting upon the arm of her chair, looking down at the strangely pallid face. “But should love have the power to frighten me?” “Frighten, my darling?”