Then it was that all her pent-up passion broke out. She overwhelmed him with her affection, she told him that her life had been a blank while he was away, she reproached him with the scarcity and coldness of his letters, and generally went on in a way with which he was but too well accustomed, and, if the truth must be told, heartily tired. His mood was an irritable one, and to-night the whole thing wearied him beyond bearing. “Come, Belle,” he said at last, “for goodness’ sake be a little more rational. You are getting too old for this sort of tomfoolery, you know.” She sprang up and faced him, her eyes flashing and her breast heaving with jealous anger. “What do you mean?” she said. “Are you tired of me?” “I did not say that,” he answered, “but as you have started the subject I must tell you that I think all this has gone far enough. Unless it is stopped I believe we shall both be ruined. I am sure that your husband is becoming suspicious, and as I have told you again and again, if once the business gets to my father’s ears he will disinherit me.” Belle stood quite still till he had finished. She had assumed her favourite attitude and crossed her arms behind her back, and her sweet childish face was calm and very white. “What is the good of making excuses and telling me what is not true, Edward?” she said. “One never hears a man who loves a woman talk like that; prudence comes with weariness, and men grow circumspect when there is nothing more to gain. You _are_ tired of me. I have seen it a long time, but like a blind fool I have tried not to believe it. It is not a great reward to a woman who has given her whole life to a man, but perhaps it is as much as she can expect, for I do not want to be unjust to you. I am the most to blame, because we need never take a false step except of our own free will.” “Well, well,” he said impatiently, “what of it?” “Only this, Edward. I have still a little pride left, and as you are tired of me, why—_go_.” He tried hard to prevent it, but do what he would, a look of relief struggled into his face. She saw it, and it stung her almost to madness. “You need not look so happy, Edward; it is scarcely decent; and, besides, you have not heard all that I have to say. I know what this arises from. You are in love with Ida de la Molle. Now _there_ I draw the line. You may leave me if you like, but you shall not marry Ida while I am alive to prevent it. That is more than I can bear. Besides, like a wise woman, she wishes to marry Colonel Quaritch, who is worth two of you, Edward Cossey.” “I do not believe it,” he answered; “and what right have you to say that I am in love with Miss de la Molle? And if I am in love with her, how can you prevent me from marrying her if I choose?”