“Yes,” said Cecily, quietly, “I dare. I owe it to Dick that I’m no longer the miserable, helpless woman I was when he came home. _Then_, I was dependent for all that makes life upon the love of one man--who had failed me. Now, I have a life of my own, friends of my own, work of my own. And it was Dick who showed me how to trust myself, and shake myself free!” He stood looking at her. In the midst of the whirl of emotions within him, jealousy, resentment, humiliation, and a childish longing for comfort, he thought how beautiful she was. He realized every detail of her gleaming dress; he saw the whiteness of her breast, the curve of her lips, the droop of her cloudy hair. “In the intervals of love-making, no doubt?” he suggested. Her eyes grew hard. “Is it necessary to be insulting? Dick has never made love to me since I have been your wife.” For a long moment he looked at her. He believed what she said. Cecily had never lied to him. If she said so, he told himself, it was true, and with the assurance came an almost terrible sense of relief. He was still thinking chaotically; the wound inflicted by Philippa to his pride still rankled with an intolerable smart. Cecily’s attitude towards him was a further humiliation--but the last evil had not descended. His wife was still his. He paused in his restless pacing and stood before her. “Cecily,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “won’t you be friends? I have behaved badly. I admit it.” He felt a sort of pleasure in this self-abasement, but Cecily did not move. “I give you my word it’s all over,” he went on, desperately. “Miss Burton will never come here again. I shall never see her again. I love you. Really, I love you. I can’t see you drifting away from me----” She did not speak, and with her silence waves of growing resentment, of unreasonable anger, began to gather. “But you must give up this intimacy with Mayne,” he added, with a change of voice. He waited. “After all, you are my wife. I have a right to demand that.” He took an impatient step towards her and put out his hand to draw her to him. Suddenly she recoiled from him and began to speak in a low, rapid voice, vehemently, passionately. “Did you love me when I was wretched--longing for you--eating my heart out with misery? No! You never even noticed that I was miserable. But now--_now_, when I’ve got back my looks, when I’m rather admired, rather sought after--now, when your love affair is over because the woman has deceived you--now you come to me and profess love! To me such love is an insult, whether it’s offered by a woman’s husband or any other man!” She paused and with a great effort added, with quiet deliberation, “I refuse to give up my friendship with Dick. It’s no more, it will never be anything more than a friendship, but”--she paused--“it’s the best thing I’ve had in my life.” For a second’s space they looked at each other silently. “Mr. Mayne,” said the maid at the door.