She faced me, her bosom heaving, her widening eyes scrutinizing me. And what I saw in them made me quail. For there shone the arch-fiend jealousy. “Godfrey!” she exclaimed at last. “It must be another woman!” I laughed--not pleasantly, I imagine. “Is there no end to your vanity?” said I. “Another woman,” she repeated dazedly. “If that weren’t true you couldn’t treat me harshly--you would want me back--would love me----” “If there were not another woman on earth, I would not go back to you,” said I. But what woman would believe that of a man--especially of one upon whom she had put her private brand? She said in the same slow ferocious way: “Some woman has hold of you--is getting ready to make a fool of you.” I laughed--nervously watching her mind dart from woman to woman of those we knew. “Ah--you can’t deceive me!” she cried. “Mary Kirkwood! She has been stealing you away from me. And you, a fool like all men where women are concerned, can’t see through her.” Edna laughed wildly. “But she has _me_ to reckon with now. I’ll show her!” “Mrs. Kirkwood is engaged to Hartley Beechman,” said I. “A nobody of a novelist,” said Edna. “That’s a mere blind. She’s after _you_. After _my_ husband--the man _I_ love! We’ll see!” Again I laughed--and I am sure my counterfeit of indifference was successful. “Have it your way,” said I. “But the fact remains that you and I are done with each other.” “I shall set aside the divorce,” said she. “As you please,” replied I, lighting a cigarette and preparing to leave the room. “If you are not content with the terms of settlement you can have more money. If that----” “Why _do_ I love you?” cried she, all softness and piteous appeal again. “You who are so base that you think only of money! What weakness for me to love you! Yet, God help me, I do--I do! Godfrey----” “I am going back to London,” said I. She stretched out her arms, and her face was a grief-stricken appeal for mercy. “You can’t be so cruel to me--your Edna.” I smiled mockingly at her and left the room. XII I have not been unaware of your anger and disgust with me, gentle reader, during the progress of the preceding scene. In real life--in your own life--you would have understood such a scene. But you are not in the habit of reading realities in books--real men, real women, real action. Everything is there toned down, put in what is called an artistic perspective. Well, I am not an artist, and perhaps I have no right to express an opinion upon matters of art. But I’ll venture. To me art means a point of view upon life; so, I see nothing artistic, nothing but more or less grotesque nonsense, in an art that is not a point of view but a false view. But to keep to Edna and myself.