“You don’t understand. She’s in love with Strickland.” “What!” I was startled at this, but the idea had no sooner taken possession of me than I saw it was absurd. “How can you be so silly? You don’t mean to say you’re jealous of Strickland?” I almost laughed. “You know very well that she can’t bear the sight of him.” “You don’t understand,” he moaned. “You’re an hysterical ass,” I said a little impatiently. “Let me give you a whisky-and-soda, and you’ll feel better.” I supposed that for some reason or other—and Heaven knows what ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves—Dirk had got it into his head that his wife cared for Strickland, and with his genius for blundering he might quite well have offended her so that, to anger him, perhaps, she had taken pains to foster his suspicion. “Look here,” I said, “let’s go back to your studio. If you’ve made a fool of yourself you must eat humble pie. Your wife doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman to bear malice.” “How can I go back to the studio?” he said wearily. “They’re there. I’ve left it to them.” “Then it’s not your wife who’s left you; it’s you who’ve left your wife.” “For God’s sake don’t talk to me like that.” Still I could not take him seriously. I did not for a moment believe what he had told me. But he was in very real distress. “Well, you’ve come here to talk to me about it. You’d better tell me the whole story.” “This afternoon I couldn’t stand it any more. I went to Strickland and told him I thought he was quite well enough to go back to his own place. I wanted the studio myself.” “No one but Strickland would have needed telling,” I said. “What did he say?” “He laughed a little; you know how he laughs, not as though he were amused, but as though you were a damned fool, and said he’d go at once. He began to put his things together. You remember I fetched from his room what I thought he needed, and he asked Blanche for a piece of paper and some string to make a parcel.” Stroeve stopped, gasping, and I thought he was going to faint. This was not at all the story I had expected him to tell me. “She was very pale, but she brought the paper and the string. He didn’t say anything. He made the parcel and he whistled a tune. He took no notice of either of us. His eyes had an ironic smile in them. My heart was like lead. I was afraid something was going to happen, and I wished I hadn’t spoken. He looked round for his hat. Then she spoke: “‘I’m going with Strickland, Dirk,’ she said. ‘I can’t live with you any more.’ “I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Strickland didn’t say anything. He went on whistling as though it had nothing to do with him.” Stroeve stopped again and mopped his face. I kept quite still. I believed him now, and I was astounded. But all the same I could not understand.