"So I should," Poppy answered. "I should very much like to kill you. And I've the wherewithal here, in my pocket, and there's no one on the road. But you needn't be anxious. I'm not going to murder you. The consequences to myself would be too inconvenient." As she spoke she thought of yesterday, of the renewal of her friendship with Dominic Iglesias, and of all that he stood for to her in things pure, lovely, and of good report. A sob rose in her throat, for nothing, after all, is so horrible as to feel wicked; nothing so hard to forgive as that which causes one to feel so. Poppy walked on again slowly. "What do you want?" she repeated miserably. "Be straight with me for once, if you can, de Courcy, and tell me plainly--if there's anything to tell. What is it you want?" "I have my chance at last," he said hurriedly, "of fame, and success, and recognition--of bringing those who have despised me to their knees. I thought I was safe. But yesterday I found that you--yes, you--come into the question, that you may stand between me and the realisation of my hopes--more than hopes, a certainty, unless you play some scurvy trick on me. I had to have your promise, and there was no time to lose--so I wrote." Poppy looked at him contemptuously. "What does all that mean?--more money?" she asked. "Haven't you grown ashamed of begging yet? I raised your allowance last year, and it's being paid regularly--Ford & Martin have sent me on your receipts. To give it you at all is an act of grace, for you've no earthly claim on me, and you know it. From the day I married you I never cost you a farthing; I've paid for everything myself, down to every morsel of bread I put into my mouth. You, talked big about your income beforehand, when you knew you were up to your eyes in debt. Well, in debt you may stay, as far as I am concerned. I'll give you that seventy-five a year if you'll keep clear of me; but I won't give you a penny more, for the simple reason that I shan't have it to give. It'll be an uncommonly close shave in any case--I have myself to keep." "Yourself to keep?" Smyth snarled. "Since when have you taken to wholesale lying, my pretty madam? That is a new development." "I'm not lying," Poppy blazed out. "I am speaking honest, sober truth." Smyth laughed. It was not an agreeable sound. "Is not that a little too brazen?" he asked. "Even with such a negligible quantity as a deserted husband, it is a mistake to overplay the part." Then, frightened by her expression, he slunk aside again. But Poppy did not linger. Slowly, steadily, she walked on down the rain-lashed footpath. "For God's sake tell me what you want--tell me what you want," she cried, "and let me get away from all this rottenness." "You do not believe in me," Smyth replied sullenly, "and that is why it is so difficult to speak to you about this matter. You have always depreciated my powers and scoffed at my talents. No thanks to you I have any self-confidence left."