Urquhart began with a touch of asperity ill disguised. "Might one be allowed to enquire...?" Scared perhaps by his pomposity, he broke off: "No, that won't do. I'll ask you simply, what has happened? You liked me--to say no more. Now you don't. No, no, don't protest yet. Leave it at that. Well, and then there's Macartney. Macartney didn't know you existed. Now he doesn't see that any one else does. What has happened, Lucy?" She was annoyed at his _Lucy_, annoyed that she could be annoyed, annoyed at his question, and his right to ask it--which she had given him. Mostly, perhaps, she was annoyed because her answer must sound ridiculous. Hateful, that such should be the lot of men and wives! She repeated his question, "What has happened? I don't know how to tell you. I found out, before we started--James found out-- Please don't ask me to talk about it. Believe me when I say that everything is changed. I can't say more than that." He didn't move his eyes from her. She knew they were there though she would not face them. "Everything isn't changed. I'm not changed. I don't know that you are, although you say so." She faced him. "Indeed, I am. I hope you'll understand that." He frowned, his fever flushed him. "You can't be. We can never be ordinary acquaintance. I have kissed you--" "You had no right--" "You have kissed me--" "You are cruel indeed." "I am not cruel--I don't pretend to excuse myself. The first time--it was the act of a cad--but I worked it all out. It couldn't fail; I knew exactly how it would be. You would of course think it was he. You would be awfully touched, awfully pleased--set up. And you were. I saw that you were when we all came into the room. You went over and stood by him. You put your hand on his arm. I said, 'You divine, beautiful, tender thing, now I'll go through the fire to get you....'" Lucy had covered her face with her hands; but now she lifted it and showed him as it might be the eyes of an Assessing Angel. "You went through no fire at all. But you put me in the fire." But he continued as if she had said nothing material. "I had made up my mind to be satisfied. I thought if I could see you exalted, proud of what you had, that would be enough. But you found him out; and then you found me out too ... and we never spoke of it. But there it was, Lucy, all the time; and there it is still, my dear--" Her face was aflame, but her eyes clear and cold. "No," she said, "it's not there. There is nothing there at all. You are nothing to me but a thought of shame. I think I deserve all that you can say--but surely you have said enough to me now. I must leave you if you go on with this conversation. Nothing whatever is there--"