“I’m not conscious,” he began again, “of having said anything particularly laughable--” He stopped and scrutinized her narrowly, as though checked by the thought that there might be something not quite normal.... Then, apparently reassured, he half-murmured his only French phrase: “_La joie fait peur_ ... eh?” She did not seem to hear. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” she said, “but only at the coincidences of life. It was in this room that my husband asked me to marry him.” “Ah?” Her suitor appeared politely doubtful of the good taste, or the opportunity, of producing this reminiscence. But he made another call on his magnanimity. “Really? But, I say, my dear, I couldn’t be expected to know it, could I? If I’d guessed that such a painful association--” “Painful?” She turned upon him. “A painful association? Do you think that was what I meant?” Her voice sank. “This room is sacred to me.” She had her eyes on his face, which, perhaps because of its architectural completeness, seemed to lack the mobility necessary to follow such a leap of thought. It was so ostensibly a solid building, and not a nomad’s tent. He struggled with a ruffled pride, rose again to playful magnanimity, and murmured: “Compassionate angel!” “Oh, compassionate? To whom? Do you imagine--did I ever say anything to make you doubt the truth of what I’m telling you?” His brows fretted: his temper was up. “_Say_ anything? No,” he insinuated ironically; then, in a hasty plunge after his lost forbearance, added with exquisite mildness: “Your tact was perfect ... always. I’ve invariably done you that justice. No one could have been more thoroughly the ... the lady. I never failed to admire your good-breeding in avoiding any reference to your ... your other life.” She faced him steadily. “Well, that other life _was_ my life--my only life! Now you know.” There was a silence. Henry Prest drew out a monogrammed handkerchief and passed it over his dry lips. As he did so, a whiff of his eau de Cologne reached her, and she winced a little. It was evident that he was seeking what to say next; wondering, rather helplessly, how to get back his lost command of the situation. He finally induced his features to break again into a persuasive smile. “Not your _only_ life, dearest,” he reproached her. She met it instantly. “Yes; so you thought--because I chose you should.” “You chose--?” The smile became incredulous. “Oh, deliberately. But I suppose I’ve no excuse that you would not dislike to hear.... Why shouldn’t we break off now?” “Break off ... this conversation?” His tone was aggrieved. “Of course I’ve no wish to force myself--” She interrupted him with a raised hand. “Break off for good, Henry.” “For good?” He stared, and gave a quick swallow, as though the dose were choking him. “For good? Are you really--? You and I? Is this serious, Lizzie?” “Perfectly. But if you prefer to hear ... what can only be painful....”