I interrupted her then. I said quietly: "That's all very well, Helen, but you would have cared--years ago--even if money doesn't matter to you now. In fact, you _did_ care--and that was why, in my opinion, you didn't go away with him when you had the chance. He was willing, but you weren't.... I'm not blaming you, of course. But it's rather unfair of you to suggest that it was I who stood in your way, when all the time it was you yourself." She stumbled forward a little, as if all her body had slackened. After a pause she said slowly and not very distinctly: "If it's true--_even_ if it's true--I couldn't help it...." It was as though she were pleading for some sort of mercy. She continued more sharply: "How do you know all this? Terry would never tell you anything, I know. Are you _really_ clever enough to see into me, or was it only a lucky guess? ... Oh, things--_things_--as Terry used to say--what a curse they are when we want to follow our heart's desire!" After another pause she recovered a kind of cynical equanimity. "You were quite right," she said, "to smash up my heroics. I'm rather worthless, I daresay.... I married Geoffrey because he was able to give me all that a part of me craved for--charming and cultured richness--you know the sort of thing. Geoffrey always _was_ rich--even before he made any money; he had rich ideas and loved rich things. Part of me married him for that, and I never knew there was any other part of me till I met Terry.... You do realize a little, don't you? I _know_ you do--I somehow _feel_ you do.... Not that I care very much whether you do or don't. I've made up my mind." "For what?" The abrupt question seemed to stir her. "I've made up my mind that--in certain circumstances--I'll take the short cut to happiness." "Short cuts are apt to be dangerous." "Danger? Who cares for that? There comes a time when nothing--nothing at all--counts but getting what you crave for." "Well?" "Would you condemn any woman to a whole life-time of wanting something that she could get any moment by having the courage?" "I don't know. I don't know quite what it is you're proposing to do." She said then: "Everything depends on next week--on Geoffrey's operation." "How?" She looked at me fearlessly. "I hope, for his sake and mine, that it's successful. For if it is--if he's going to get better--then I shall leave him." "And if not?" "Then--I suppose--I must just go on _wanting_...." VIII There wasn't in me then, and there isn't in me now when I think of it, any shred of anger with her. (That, of course is the danger, and, all the hard remorseless analysis in the world won't alter it.) I may as well confess the truth; her pleadings had stirred me to vivid sympathy with her. I felt, if it conveys anything to say so, that deep down behind all her treachery she was as true and straight as Terry himself.