"Don't you know what it is"--he spoke with a curious imperiousness--"that protects any woman--or any man either for the matter of that--from Marcella Maxwell's beauty? Don't you know that she adores her husband?" "That's a pose, of course, like everything else," cried Letty, trying to move herself away; "you once said it was." "Before I knew her. It's not a pose--it's the secret of her whole life." He walked back to the mantelpiece, conscious of a sudden rise of inward bitterness. "Well, I shall go to bed," said Letty, again half rising. "You might, I think, have had the kindness and the good taste to say you were sorry I should have the humiliation of finding out where my husband spends his evenings, from Harding Watton!" Tressady was stung. "When have I ever concealed what I did from you?" he asked her hotly. Letty, who was standing stiff and scornful, tossed her head without speaking. "That means," said Tressady after a pause, "that you don't take my word for it--that you suspect me of deceiving you before to-night?" Letty still said nothing. His eyes flashed. Then a pang of conscience smote him. He took up his cigarette again with a laugh. "I think we are both a pair of babies," he said, as he pretended to look for matches. "You know very well that you don't really think I tell you mean lies. And let me assure you, my dear child, that fate did not mean Lady Maxwell to have lovers--and that she never will have them. But when that's said there's something else to say." He went up to her again, and touched her arm. "You and I couldn't have this kind of scene, Letty, could we, if everything was all right?" Her breast rose and fell hurriedly. "Oh! I supposed you would want to retaliate--to complain on your side!" "Yes," he said deliberately, "I think I do want to complain. Why is it that--I began to like going down to see Lady Maxwell--why did I like talking to her at Castle Luton? Well! of course it's pleasant to be with a beautiful person--I don't deny that in the least. But she might have been as beautiful as an angel, and I mightn't have cared twopence about her. She has something much less common than beauty. It's very simple, too--I suppose it's only _sympathy_--just that. Everybody feels the same. When you talk to her she seems to care about it; she throws her mind into yours. And there's a charm about it--there's no doubt of that." He had begun his little speech meaning to be perfectly frank and honest--to appeal to her better nature and his own. But something stopped him abruptly, perhaps the sudden perception that he was after playing the hypocrite--perhaps the consciousness that he was only making matters worse. "It's a pity you didn't say all these things before," she said, with a hard laugh, "instead of denouncing the political woman, as you used to do." He sat down on the arm of the chair beside her, balancing lightly, with his hands in his pockets.