'No doubt,' she replied in a tone of so much sadness that he became remorseful. He contrasted, moreover, her violence, troublesome, inconvenient, as it often was, with the standardised and distasteful little inanities of Fru Thyregod and her like, and found Eve preferable. 'Darling, you never defend yourself; it is very disarming.' But she would not accept the olive-branch he offered. 'Sentimentality becomes you very badly, Julian; keep it for Fru Thyregod.' 'We have had enough of Fru Thyregod,' he said, flushing. 'It suits you to say so; I do not forget so easily. Really, Julian, sometimes I think you very commonplace. From the moment you arrived until to-day, you have never been out of Fru Thyregod's pocket. Like Alexander, once. Like any stray young man.' 'Eve!' he said, in astonishment at the outrageous accusation. 'My little Julian, have you washed the lap-dog to-day? Carl always says, "Mabel, you are fonder of your dogs than of your children--you are really dreadful," but I don't think that's quite fair,' said Eve, in so exact an imitation of Fru Thyregod's voice and manner that Julian was forced to smile. She went on,-- 'I expect too much of you. My imagination makes of you something which you are not. I so despise the common herd that I persuade myself that you are above it. I can persuade myself of anything,' she said scathingly, wounding him in the recesses of his most treasured vanity--her good opinion of him; 'I persuade myself that you are a Titan amongst men, almost a god, but in reality, if I could see you without prejudice, what are you fit for? to be Fru Thyregod's lover!' 'You are mad,' he said, for there was no other reply. 'When I am jealous, I am mad,' she flung at him. 'But if you are jealous of me....' he said, appalled. 'Supposing you were ever in love, your jealousy would know no bounds. It is a disease. It is the ruin of our friendship.' 'Entirely.' 'You are inordinately perverse.' 'Inordinately.' 'Supposing I were to marry, I should not dare--what an absurd thought--to introduce you to my wife.' A truly terrible expression came into her eyes; they narrowed to little slits, and turned slightly inwards; as though herself aware of it, she bent to pick the little cyclamen. 'Are you trying to tell me, Julian....' 'You told me you were engaged to Miloradovitch.' She stood up, regardless, and he saw the tragic pallor of her face. She tore the cyclamen to pieces beneath her white fingers. 'It is true, then?' she said, her voice dead. He began to laugh. 'You do indeed persuade yourself very easily.' 'Julian, you must tell me. You must. Is it true?' 'If it were?' 'I should have to kill you--or myself,' she replied with the utmost gravity. 'You are mad,' he said again, in the resigned tone of one who states a perfectly established fact.