She sat in the studio, counting the minutes, and thought with a bitter smile that his eagerness to see Margaret would make him punctual. She had eaten nothing since the _petit déjeuner_ of the morning, and she was faint with hunger. But she had not the heart to make herself tea. At last he came. He entered joyfully and looked around. “Is Margaret not here yet?” he asked, with surprise. “Won’t you sit down?” He did not notice that her voice was strange, nor that she kept her eyes averted. “How lazy you are,” he cried. “You haven’t got the tea.” “Mr Burdon, I have something to say to you. It will cause you very great pain.” He observed now the hoarseness of her tone. He sprang to his feet, and a thousand fancies flashed across his brain. Something horrible had happened to Margaret. She was ill. His terror was so great that he could not speak. He put out his hands as does a blind man. Susie had to make an effort to go on. But she could not. Her voice was choked, and she began to cry. Arthur trembled as though he were seized with ague. She gave him the letter. “What does it mean?” He looked at her vacantly. Then she told him all that she had done that day and the places to which she had been. “When you thought she was spending every afternoon with Mrs Bloomfield, she was with that man. She made all the arrangements with the utmost care. It was quite premeditated.” Arthur sat down and leaned his head on his hand. He turned his back to her, so that she should not see his face. They remained in perfect silence. And it was so terrible that Susie began to cry quietly. She knew that the man she loved was suffering an agony greater than the agony of death, and she could not help him. Rage flared up in her heart, and hatred for Margaret. “Oh, it’s infamous!” she cried suddenly. “She’s lied to you, she’s been odiously deceitful. She must be vile and heartless. She must be rotten to the very soul.” He turned round sharply, and his voice was hard. “I forbid you to say anything against her.” Susie gave a little gasp. He had never spoken to her before in anger. She flashed out bitterly. “Can you love her still, when she’s shown herself capable of such vile treachery? For nearly a month this man must have been making love to her, and she’s listened to all we said of him. She’s pretended to hate the sight of him, I’ve seen her cut him in the street. She’s gone on with all the preparations for your marriage. She must have lived in a world of lies, and you never suspected anything because you had an unalterable belief in her love and truthfulness. She owes everything to you. For four years she’s lived on your charity. She was only able to be here because you gave her money to carry out a foolish whim, and the very clothes on her back were paid for by you.” “I can’t help it if she didn’t love me,” he cried desperately. “You know just as well as I do that she pretended to love you. Oh, she’s behaved shamefully. There can be no excuse for her.”