“And I had just been thinking how happy these six years had been and how peaceful and sweet these evenings were, the three of us together. Perhaps I have been selfish.” He caught the implication, and broke into protest. “You know very well they are the happiest times of my life,” he said. “Where else could I get what I have here?” “I sometimes think it would be better for you if you could find a nice woman to give you something better,” she said, somewhat timorously. “Oh, don’t talk like that, Renie,” he cried, impetuously, throwing his cigarette into the fire. “The more I see of other women, the more I despair. I see a lot of them. I’ve been married to a half a dozen already, by popular rumour. I suppose I shall end one of these days by marrying one in grim earnest. I’m a fool, Renie, I know. But _que veux-tu?_ My temperament is not that of an anchorite. I know how it will be. A whirl of the senses--and after that the deluge. And then I’ll come back here and sit in this room and wonder how the devil I could have thought of another woman. You’ve spoiled me for the common run of women. I haven’t met one yet that is fit to black your shoes. The man that worships the sun doesn’t give his allegiance to a bonfire.” “But he can warm himself by the bonfire,” replied Irene, laughing. “Until the thing goes out. Then he’s got to light another. But the sun is eternal.” She was accustomed to his hyperbole. The woman in her loved the praise. It supplemented Gerard’s rarer tributes to her worth, effectually prevented her from feeling a lack in her husband’s lesser demonstrativeness. Again, she was enlightened enough to allow relief to overburdened feelings. A man of his type could not love her to-day and cast her out of his heart to-morrow. She never had a moment’s doubt that she was throned there as the love of his life. But a magnanimous scorn of thoughts of disloyalty on his part triumphed supremely over a false position. In Hugh’s present outburst, however, she detected some special determining cause. “I’m a very limited being, my dear Hugh,” she said quickly, “whatever exaggerations I let you use. But you know how deep my interest in your welfare is, and life could not go wrong with you without causing me--and Gerard--pain and anxiety. That was why I spoke. Whatever it is, I am sorry.” Sympathy could not have been more delicately conveyed than it was by her tone and look. But there are times when sympathy stings. He remained silent for a moment, then shifted his position, threw back his head and twirled his great moustache. “You are everything that is sweet, Renie,” said he. “But I was telling you general truths--not posing as _un homme manqué_. I hate the kind of fellows that are forever mewing about for women’s sympathy. It’s despicable!” He rose, and, with two arms held out, took her hands and raised her from her chair.