The unfinished sentence tortured him. He saw himself alive, tormented; her as a statue of fate, unmoving, cold by his cold fireside. If only she would make some movement--not stand there like a statue: her lips rigid, her hands taut, every line of her body tense under the frozen draperies. "I don't doubt your word," he said sullenly. "Then answer my question. Do you regard me as your property or not? If I asked you for my freedom, would you give it to me?" "You mean--let you divorce me?" For a moment, aware of hypocrisy, Aliette hesitated. Then she said, "Yes." "On what grounds?" "Your infidelities." "My infidelities!" He laughed, his legal mind seeing the whole strength of his position. "You have no proof of them. And even if you had, infidelity by itself is no ground for divorce. Besides"--his cruelty could not forbear the blow--"you've condoned them." "Condoned them! I?" "Yes. You. By not leaving my house. By continuing to live with me." "That's untrue. I've never lived with you, since--since I found out." "You'll never make the world believe that." "What do I care about the world?" "Aliette"--for the last time he forced himself to plead with her,--"think of my position, our position. Even if it were legally possible, you wouldn't ask me----" He continued to plead till he felt utterly worn out, utterly beaten; till it seemed to him that he had been arguing with her--arguing uselessly--for hours. And all the time he argued, one thought nagged at him: "There _is_ somebody else. There must be somebody else. I must find out who he is." "Then you refuse," she was saying. "You refuse me my freedom. You go back on your own words." She, too, felt worn out. She could not even hate the man, because she had no right to hate him. At least--Mollie's words about James Wilberforce came into her weary mind--Hector had not beaten around the bush. He had been straight-forward enough; whereas she--she was not being straight-forward, was not playing the game. But the instinct to be free did not abate its violence. "Very well"--the cross-examiner in Brunton urged him to the playing of his last card,--"I won't go back on my words. I'll admit the justice of everything you've said. You shall have your freedom." Her eyes lit; and his suspicion became certainty. "I'll arrange everything. There need be very little scandal; only the usual fake--a suit for restitution of your conjugal rights. You'll get an order of the court, an order for me to return to you. You needn't worry, I sha'n't comply with it. After that----" He broke off, watching her. Her face had softened, renewed its coloring. Yet she was nervous. She fidgeted ever so slightly, first on one white-shod foot, than on the other.