“I shouldn’t hesitate. Why, she’ll want me more than ever then. When she’s alone and humiliated and broken it would be dreadful if she had nowhere to go.” He seemed to bear no resentment. I suppose it was commonplace in me that I felt slightly outraged at his lack of spirit. Perhaps he guessed what was in my mind, for he said: “I couldn’t expect her to love me as I loved her. I’m a buffoon. I’m not the sort of man that women love. I’ve always known that. I can’t blame her if she’s fallen in love with Strickland.” “You certainly have less vanity than any man I’ve ever known,” I said. “I love her so much better than myself. It seems to me that when vanity comes into love it can only be because really you love yourself best. After all, it constantly happens that a man when he’s married falls in love with somebody else; when he gets over it he returns to his wife, and she takes him back, and everyone thinks it very natural. Why should it be different with women?” “I dare say that’s logical,” I smiled, “but most men are made differently, and they can’t.” But while I talked to Stroeve I was puzzling over the suddenness of the whole affair. I could not imagine that he had had no warning. I remembered the curious look I had seen in Blanche Stroeve’s eyes; perhaps its explanation was that she was growing dimly conscious of a feeling in her heart that surprised and alarmed her. “Did you have no suspicion before to-day that there was anything between them?” I asked. He did not answer for a while. There was a pencil on the table, and unconsciously he drew a head on the blotting-paper. “Please say so, if you hate my asking you questions,” I said. “It eases me to talk. Oh, if you knew the frightful anguish in my heart.” He threw the pencil down. “Yes, I’ve known it for a fortnight. I knew it before she did.” “Why on earth didn’t you send Strickland packing?” “I couldn’t believe it. It seemed so improbable. She couldn’t bear the sight of him. It was more than improbable; it was incredible. I thought it was merely jealousy. You see, I’ve always been jealous, but I trained myself never to show it; I was jealous of every man she knew; I was jealous of you. I knew she didn’t love me as I loved her. That was only natural, wasn’t it? But she allowed me to love her, and that was enough to make me happy. I forced myself to go out for hours together in order to leave them by themselves; I wanted to punish myself for suspicions which were unworthy of me; and when I came back I found they didn’t want me—not Strickland, he didn’t care if I was there or not, but Blanche. She shuddered when I went to kiss her. When at last I was certain I didn’t know what to do; I knew they’d only laugh at me if I made a scene. I thought if I held my tongue and pretended not to see, everything would come right. I made up my mind to get him away quietly, without quarrelling. Oh, if you only knew what I’ve suffered!”