Elsie felt a curious pleasure and relief in thus mocking at the furious jealousy that was evident in her husband’s face and manner. “Answer my question.” She remained silent. “Are you and that fellow in love?” “I’ve answered that before. I told you months ago, when you first started to insult me, that he was nothing to me.” “That wasn’t true then--and it isn’t now. Morrison’s in love with you, damn him, and you’re in love with him!” “Am I?” Elsie laughed derisively in the new and uncomprehended realisation that she was no longer afraid of Horace. “You little bitch!...” He caught her by the shoulders and suddenly flung her against the wall. Elsie screamed, but it was reflex action from the physical shock alone that made her do so. She was neither frightened nor very much startled. There was even an odd exhilaration for her in the sudden release of those pent-up forces that had for so long vibrated tensely between herself and her husband. However, her arm and shoulder were bruised, and her whole body violently jarred. “You’re a coward!” she panted. “Hitting a woman!” “You drove me to it.... Elsie, get up!... I’m sorry I did that, but you’re driving me mad. God, if I had that fellow here I’d wring the life out of him!” “No, you wouldn’t,” Elsie taunted him. “He’s a great deal stronger than you are--he’s a man, he is--you’d never dare to touch him. All you can do is to knock a woman about.” “That’s a lie! I’ve never touched you before, though there’s many a man in my place would have beaten you within an inch of your life. I didn’t know what I was doing just now.” He took a step towards her, but Elsie pulled herself up from the floor without appearing to notice the movement. She felt slightly giddy, and her head ached. “Aren’t you going to--to forgive me? I oughtn’t to have hit you, I acknowledge, but you’ve done everything to drive me to it. Elsie, swear to me that there’s nothing now between you and Morrison.” “Oh, all right,” she said wearily. “I swear it.” She felt that she no longer cared what happened in a sudden overwhelming fatigue. “I don’t believe you,” said Williams bitterly. Elsie shrugged her shoulders, and turned, moving stiffly, to leave the room. “Are you--are you hurt?” “Yes, of course I am. My shoulder will be black and blue to-morrow, I should think.” “Shall I get you anything?” Williams muttered, shamefaced. She made no answer. That afternoon Elsie rang up Leslie Morrison on the telephone after her husband had gone out. “Is that you, Les?” “Yes. How’s yourself?” He had told her never to be prodigal of verbal endearments in their telephone communications, and she knew that he was probably not alone, but it struck her painfully that his tone was a purely casual one, such as he might have used to anyone. “We’ve had an awful scene, boy.” “What--who?”