In spite of the exultation that he felt (or deluded himself into feeling) at the triple wickedness wherewith he purposed to burden his soul, Quixtus dined with Mrs. Fontaine in a subdued frame of mind. It was not the fault of the dinner, for it was carefully selected by Mrs. Fontaine, who smiled pityingly at Quixtus’s gastronomic ignorance; nor was it that of the place, a cosy little restaurant in the Passage Jouffroy; nor that of the lady, who appeared bent on pleasing. Deep down in his soul were stirrings of pity which his clouded brain could not interpret. Their effect, however, was a mild melancholy. Mrs. Fontaine’s trained senses quickly noticed it, and she tuned her talk in key. She prided herself on being a sympathetic woman. By this time she had learned to discount his pessimistic utterances which she knew proceeded from the same psychological source as the lunatic desire to break a woman’s heart which had been the inspiration of the plot. She discerned the essential gentleness of the man, his tender impulses, his integral innocence, and established him in her own eyes as a pathetic spectacle. As to the heart-breaking, she felt secure. It was the only element of humour in the ghastly game, which day by day had grown more repulsive. It was in this chastened mood that she met Huckaby, on their return to the Continental. Quixtus went up to his room by the lift, and left them standing in the lounge. “I can’t do it,” she said hurriedly. “Billiter and the whole lot of you can go to the devil. I’m out of it. With a man who can take care of himself, yes. I’ve no compunction. It’s a fair fight. But this is too low down. It’s like robbing a blind beggar. It revolts me. Understand—this is the end of it.” “Will you believe me,” said Huckaby, “when I say that it’s more than I can swallow either? I’m honest. I’m out of it too. Billiter can go to the devil.” She looked at him, as she had done before that day; long and searchingly, and her hard eyes gradually softened. “Yes, I believe you.” Huckaby bowed. “I thank you, Mrs. Fontaine. And as we are on this painful subject, I should like to be frank with you. You know how this thing started. I began it in the first place as a joke, a wild jest, to humour him in his madness. The idea of Quixtus breaking a woman’s heart is comic. But—God knows how—it developed into our—our association. The important part now is this—if you think you have been fooling him to the top of his bent, you’re mistaken. When it came to the point of beginning his heart-breaking career, he shied at it. Told me the whole thing was profoundly distasteful and I must never mention the matter again.” “Well?” asked Mrs. Fontaine, “what does that mean?” “It means,” said Huckaby, “that you’ve succeeded in making him fond of your society, for its own sake.” She drew a deep breath. “Thank goodness, this nightmare of a farce is over.” “Now, I suppose you’ll go back to London,” said Huckaby.