Shep and Constance drove in silence the few blocks that lay between Mills’s house and their own. Constance explained their return to the maid by saying that she hadn’t felt well and ordered a cold supper served in the breakfast room. Shep strolled aimlessly about while she went upstairs and reappeared in a house gown. When they had eaten they went into the living-room, where she turned the leaves of a book while he pretended to read the evening newspaper. After a time she walked over to him and touched his arm, let her hand rest lightly on his head. “Yes, Connie,” he said. “There’s something I want to say to you, Shep.” “Yes, Connie.” He got up and she slipped into his chair. “It’s a lie, Shep. What your father said is a lie!” “Yes; of course,” he said, but he did not look at her. “You’ve got to believe me; I’ll die if you don’t tell me you believe in me!” and her voice broke in a sob. He walked away from her, then went back, staring at her dully. “I’ve been foolish, Shep. George and I have been good friends; we’ve enjoyed talking books and music. I like the things he likes, but that’s all. You’ve got to believe me, Shep; you’ve got to believe me!” There was deep passion in the reiterated appeal. When he did not reply she rose, clasped his cheeks in her hands so that he could not avoid her eyes. “Look at me, Shep. I swear before God I am telling you the truth!” “Yes, Connie.” He freed himself, walked to the end of the room, went back to her, regarding her intently. “Connie--what did you mean by what you said to father about Bruce Storrs?” “Oh, nothing! Your aunt Alice spoke of the resemblance one night at the country club, where she saw Bruce with Millicent. It’s rather striking when you think of it. And then at Bruce’s jollification the other night Arthur said your father once spent some time at Laconia. I thought possibly he had relatives there.” “No; never, I think.” “That’s what your aunt Alice said; but the portrait does suggest Bruce Storrs.” “Or a hundred other men,” Shep replied with a shrug. “You must be tired, Connie--you’d better go to bed.” “I don’t believe we’ve quite finished, Shep. I can’t leave you like this! Your father is a beast! A low, foul beast!” “I suppose he is,” he said indifferently. “Is that all you have to say to me--Shep?” She regarded him with growing terror in her eyes. He had said he believed her, but it was in a tone of unbelief. “I suppose a wife has a right to the protection of her husband,” she said challengingly. “You heard what I said to father, didn’t you? I told him it was a lie. I’ll never enter his house again. That ought to satisfy you,” he said with an air of dismissing the matter finally. “And this is all you have to say, Shep?” “It’s enough, isn’t it? I don’t care to discuss the matter further.” “Then this is the end--is that what you mean?” “No,” he replied in a curious, strained tone. “It’s foolish to say what the end of anything is going to be.”