“You never do,” he said ponderingly; then added, “but that was, no doubt, part of your devilish, ingenious scheming, to throw dust in my eyes.” “I don’t understand, I really don’t,” she persisted, with the firmness and absolute blankness of the deeply-committed liar. “Be a little more clear.” “You were there. I saw you,” he stormed, moving his hands about nervously. “Why! You remember looking at me. You remember--her?” “Her?” “The woman with me. She was dressed in brown.” “I hate brown. What woman?” “You haven’t the impudence to stick to it that you weren’t there--with a rump steak and a bottle of wine?” “It doesn’t sound at all inviting--at all like me. My dear boy!” She leapt up, and tremblingly hung her arms about his stubborn neck. “It was a delusion--you saw my double.” “Double be----” “You must tell me about that woman,” she broke in, smiling falsely, her teeth, beneath her curled-back lips, white and cruel in their regularity and soundness. “You’ve committed yourself. Who was she? A business connection--a person from--Liverpool? Though you’ve never asserted that it was politic for you to keep in with the women--as it is for me to appease the men.” He pushed her away from him by a reckless blow on the chest. “Curse you!” he said with fury. “You’re like a cat--all claws, all purr. You double like a cat. I saw one chased by a dog through some front gardens the other day. She doubled behind some shrubs, and he lost her.” She had one hand on her chest, where it throbbed with his fist. She was smiling still; a demoniacal smile, but with the most hopeless outraged tenderness behind it. “There are no front gardens in Piccadilly,” she said, looking at him oddly. “You must have been in the suburbs.” He sat down. He was biting his nails fitfully, and looking up at her from time to time with a sullen, suspicious glance. “I’ll be even with you yet,” he said threateningly. “You _were_ there.” “I wasn’t.” “You’ll swear?” “Women don’t swear. I wasn’t. I haven’t been out of the flat all day. Go into the bedroom, if you don’t believe me. Look at my shoes--all in nice shiny rows. Look at my gowns, all tidily on the pegs. By the way, what did she wear?” “Brown,” he returned mechanically. “Pooh! We’ll come to her later on. I mean the other--the one you mistook for me.” “You wore a violet kind of thing, with black stuff sewn on it,” he persisted. “There were violet feathers in your hat. They nodded at me like imps when you got up and slipped away. By Jove! I won’t be fooled like this----” “Don’t be absurd. Did you ever see me in violet? Think.” The dress had only come from the tailor’s that morning. She watched him triumphantly. “Perhaps not--but I never notice what you wear.” “You never do,” she made answer sadly; and then she jumped up, again meaning to kiss him, but he angrily waved her back.