“Yes--quite.” “You have--you have respected me for ten years?” “And loved you for a great many more.” “Never mind about love! You have respected me for ten years.” “Yes, Adela.” “Tell me--have you loved me more since you have been able to respect me?” “I think I have. To respect means a great deal with me.” “I must have often disgusted you very much before ten years ago. I expect you have often wondered very much about me, Seymour?” “It is difficult to understand the great differences between your own temperament and another’s, of course.” “Yes. How can faithfulness be expected to understand its opposite? You have lived like a monk, almost, and I--I have lived like a courtesan.” “Adela!” His deep voice sounded terribly hurt. “Oh, Seymour, you and I--we have always lived in the world. We know all its humbug by heart. We are both old--old now, and why should we pretend to each other? You know how lots of us have lived, no one better. And I suppose I have been one of the worst. But, as you say, for ten years now I have behaved myself.” She stopped. She longed to say, “And, my God, Seymour, I am sick of behaving myself!” That would have been the naked truth. But even to him, after what she had just said, she could not utter it. Instead, she added after a moment: “A great many lies have been lifted up as guiding lamps to men in the darkness. One of them is the saying: ‘Virtue is its own reward.’ I have behaved for ten years, and I know it is a lie.” “Adela, what is exasperating you to-day? Can’t you tell me?” Once more she looked at him with a sharp and intense scrutiny. She thought it was really a final look, and one that was to decide her fate; his too, though he did not know it. She knew his worth. She knew the value of the dweller in his temple, and had no need to debate about that. But she was one of those to whom the temple means much. She could not dissociate dweller from dwelling. The outside had always had a tremendous influence upon her, and time had not lessened that influence. Perhaps Sir Seymour felt that she was trying to come to some great decision, though he did not know, or even suspect, what that decision was. For long ago he had finally given up all hope of ever winning her for his wife. He sat still after asking this question. The lamplight shone over his thick, curly white hair, his lined, weather-beaten, distinguished old face, broad, cavalryman’s hands, upright figure, shone into his faithful dog’s eyes. And she looked and took in every physical detail, as only a woman can when she looks at a man whom she is considering in a certain way. The silence seemed long. At last he broke it. For he had seen an expression of despair come into her face. “My dear, what is it? You must tell me!” But suddenly the look of despair gave place to a mocking look which he knew very well. “It’s only boredom, Seymour. I have had too much of Berkeley Square. I think I shall go away for a little.” “To Cap Martin?”