"I'll go with you. I'm at your service," he said. "But outside; you shan't stay here." He waited a moment for an answer, but, getting none, nor so much as a look, sank awkwardly into his seat again. Grantley spoke to his wife. "I know what happened. Before you did this, you fogged your mind with all sorts of fantastic ideas. You're not the woman to do this kind of thing easily." "Fantastic ideas! Yes, they seem so to you. The fantastic idea of having something to live for, some life, something else than a prison, than repression, than coldness. I had lots of those fantastic ideas, Grantley." "You had your child." "I tell you I've faced it." She pressed her fingers hard into her cheek and frowned. "The child made it worse," she jerked out fiercely. "Seeing you with the child was----" She shook her head with a shiver. Grantley raised his eyebrows. "As bad as that?" he asked mockingly. He paused, and went on: "But this is all beside the point. Supposing it was as bad as you say, what then? You had made your bargain; you chose to take me; you relied on your own opinion. Say it was a mistaken opinion--what difference does that make?" "It does make a difference. I'm not called upon to throw away every chance of happiness because of one mistake." "That's just what you are called upon to do--in civilised society." "You don't actually propose an abstract argument," she asked, "now--under these circumstances?" She smiled derisively. "Oh, no! But your point of view compelled a protest. I'm not here to argue; I'm here to take you back--or, if you won't come, to tell you the consequences." "I'm prepared for the consequences." That gave young Blake another chance. He rose and came forward. "Yes, she is--and so am I," he said; "and that ought to end the matter between us. We're prepared for the trouble and the scandal and all that; and I'm prepared for anything else you may think proper to ask. We've weighed all that, and made up our minds to it. That's the answer we have to give." He spoke in a low voice, but very quickly and with passion; evidently he had hard work to keep control of himself. When he finished speaking, there was a moment's silence. He looked from Grantley to Sibylla, then went back to his chair; but he drew it nearer and listened intently. "It is so," said Sibylla. "We've made up our minds to all that." Grantley passed his hand across his brow--almost the first movement that he had made. He was about to speak when another short fit of vehemence caught hold of Sibylla. "Yes," she cried, striking the table with her hand, "and it's better than that life of sham and fraud and failure and heartbreak! Yes, a thousand, thousand times better!" He let the gust pass by, and then spoke slowly, as though he weighed his words. "Those are the consequences to you and your--your friend here," he said. "Have you thought of the consequences to me?" "To you? Am I so necessary?" She laughed bitterly. "And to the boy?"