"I want to show you something. Do you see this picture?" He held out the photograph. Anne approached the bed. "Is it your sister?" she noted the trembling fingers with apprehension. A sudden knife-like foreboding pierced her. "My sister!" he laughed. "No, unfortunately, no. This," he pointed a trembling, contemptuous finger at the small tragic face, "this is a photograph of my wife." Anne's smile was a triumph of indifference. "Indeed?" she said coolly. "She looks like quite a child, doesn't she?" She sat down calmly upon the chair beside the bed. Angered by her serenity, he flung her a look of mingled hatred and remorse. "I suppose you are wondering why I didn't tell you about her yesterday?" he grumbled. She lifted her brows in astonishment, her green eyes met his coolly beneath unfathomable lashes. "Not at all, it is your own affair, isn't it?" her voice was icy. "Ah, you are angry!" he exclaimed with satisfaction. "I can see you are. I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you that I completely forgot all about her?" "Hardly!" Anne's lips tightened unconsciously. "Well, believe it or not, that is the truth! My so-called wife counts for so little in my life, I seldom even think of her, and when you asked to whom we should write yesterday, she never entered my head. That is the only explanation I have to offer." Anne returned his pleading glance with perfect composure. She took the photograph out of his hand and gazed at it. As she met the girl's eyes, a tremor of sympathy quivered through her. "She seems a pitiful little creature," she murmured almost against her will. "Why are you so hard on her?" She avoided his eyes. "Because I don't love her, I suppose!" he exclaimed harshly. "And when one doesn't love a woman, one hates her. It is her own fault. She thrust herself into my life of her own accord when my will was crushed and almost dead, and I never shall forgive her for it. That is all." Once more Anne interposed in the other woman's behalf. "How pitiless you are! I don't believe you understand her at all. Perhaps she loves you? Indeed I am sure she must love you." "Loves me," he jeered, "she thinks she does, she is a born satellite. Her docility fills me with hatred, lowers me. When I am with her I feel that I am having intercourse with a slave, a chattel." He flung his hands out before him, in excess of emotion, then added more quietly, "but that is all over now. For weeks I have barely spoken to her, and it is my intention never to see her again if possible." Anne shook her head gently. "Unfortunately, one cannot end things like that." He looked at her angrily. "Why not? If she is such a fool as to refuse to divorce me, at least I can refuse to see her!" "Have you spoken to her of divorce?"