"That's something," Audrey put in, her body trembling. "I am much obliged to him." "But he clearly indicated that money had been paid--that he had not paid it himself--that the enterprise was not genuine. He permitted himself to sneer until I corrected him. He then withdrew what he had said and told me that I had misunderstood. But he was not convincing. It was too late. And I had not misunderstood. Far from that, I had understood. At once the truth traversed my mind like a flash of lightning. It was you who had paid." "And how did you guess that?" She laughed carelessly, though she could not keep her foot from shaking on the carpet. "I knew because I knew!" cried Musa. "It explained all your conduct, your ways of speaking to me, your attitude of a schoolmistress, everything. How ingenuous I have been not to perceive it before!" "Well," said Audrey firmly. "You are wrong. It is absolutely untrue that I have ever paid a penny, or ever shall, to any agent on your behalf. Do you hear? Why should I, indeed! And now what have you to reply?" She was aware of not the slightest remorse for this enormous and unqualified lie. Nay, she held it was not a lie, because Musa deserved to hear it. Strange logic, but her logic! And she was much uplifted and enfevered, and grandly careless of all consequences. "You are a woman," said Musa curtly and obstinately. "That, at any rate, is true." "Therefore I cannot treat you as a man." "Please do," she said, rising. "No. If you were a man I should call you out." And Musa rose also. "And I should be right. As you are a woman I have told you the truth, and I can do no more. I shall not characterise your denial. I have no taste for recrimination. Besides, in such a game, no man can be the equal of a woman. But I maintain what I have said, and I affirm that I know it to be true, and that there is no excuse for your conduct. And so I respectfully take leave." He moved towards the door and then stopped. "There never had been any excuse for your conduct to me," he added. "It has always been the conduct of a rich and capricious woman who amused herself by patronising a poor artist." "You may be interested to know," she said fiercely, "that I am no longer rich. Last night I heard that my fortune is gone. If I have amused myself, that may amuse you." "It does amuse me," he retorted grimly and more loudly. "I wish that you had never possessed a son. For then I might have been spared many mournful hours. All would have been different. Yes! From three days ago when I saw you walking intimately in the Tuileries Gardens with the unspeakable Gilman--right back to last year when you first, from caprice, did your best to make me love you--did it deliberately, so that all the Quarter could see!"