“You do know—you know far better than I. You’ve simply played with Victor in my presence that I may feel worse. You’ve tormented me—you’ve led me on—offering me everything and nothing at all. It’s been a spider-and-fly business from first to last—and I’ve never for one moment been ignorant of that—and I’ve never for one moment been able to withstand it.” He turned round deliberately. “Do you suppose that when you asked me to pin your flowers into your evening gown—when you let me come into your bedroom when Victor was out while you did your hair—when you pretended to be a baby and let me feed you with grapes—when you have run to me and searched in all my pockets for a cigarette—knowing perfectly well where they were kept—going through every pocket just the same—I knowing too—I keeping up the farce—do you suppose that now you have finally lighted your bonfire you are going to find it a peaceful and pleasant thing—you are going to prevent the whole house from burning?” She suddenly turned white and drew in her breath sharply. “Don’t talk to me like that. You have no right to talk to me like that. I am another man’s wife.” “Hum,” he sneered, throwing back his head, “that’s rather late in the game, and that’s been your trump card all along. You only love Victor on the cat-and-cream principle—you a poor little starved kitten that he’s given everything to, that he’s carried in his breast, never dreaming that those little pink claws could tear out a man’s heart.” She stirred, looking at him with almost fear in her eyes. “After all”—unsteadily—“this is my room; I’ll have to ask you to go.” But he stumbled towards her, knelt down by the couch, burying his head in her lap, clasping his arms round her waist. “And I _love_ you—I love you; the humiliation of it—I adore you. Don’t—don’t—just a minute let me stay here—just a moment in a whole life—Elsa! Elsa!” She leant back and pressed her head into the pillows. Then his muffled voice: “I feel like a savage. I want your whole body. I want to carry you away to a cave and love you until I kill you—you can’t understand how a man feels. I kill myself when I see you—I’m sick of my own strength that turns in upon itself, and dies, and rises new born like a Phœnix out of the ashes of that horrible death. Love me just this once, tell me a lie, _say_ that you do—you are always lying.” Instead, she pushed him away—frightened. “Get up,” she said; “suppose the servant came in with the tea?” “Oh, ye gods!” He stumbled to his feet and stood staring down at her. “You’re rotten to the core and so am I. But you’re heathenishly beautiful.” The woman went over to the piano—stood there—striking one note—her brows drawn together. Then she shrugged her shoulders and smiled.