I had often wondered why that ill-assorted pair had married, but just that explanation had never occurred to me. That was perhaps the cause of the peculiar quality of Dirk’s love for his wife. I had noticed in it something more than passion. I remembered also how I had always fancied that her reserve concealed I knew not what; but now I saw in it more than the desire to hide a shameful secret. Her tranquillity was like the sullen calm that broods over an island which has been swept by a hurricane. Her cheerfulness was the cheerfulness of despair. Strickland interrupted my reflections with an observation the profound cynicism of which startled me. “A woman can forgive a man for the harm he does her,” he said, “but she can never forgive him for the sacrifices he makes on her account.” “It must be reassuring to you to know that you certainly run no risk of incurring the resentment of the women you come in contact with,” I retorted. A slight smile broke on his lips. “You are always prepared to sacrifice your principles for a repartee,” he answered. “What happened to the child?” “Oh, it was still-born, three or four months after they were married.” Then I came to the question which had seemed to me most puzzling. “Will you tell me why you bothered about Blanche Stroeve at all?” He did not answer for so long that I nearly repeated it. “How do I know?” he said at last. “She couldn’t bear the sight of me. It amused me.” “I see.” He gave a sudden flash of anger. “Damn it all, I wanted her.” But he recovered his temper immediately, and looked at me with a smile. “At first she was horrified.” “Did you tell her?” “There wasn’t any need. She knew. I never said a word. She was frightened. At last I took her.” I do not know what there was in the way he told me this that extraordinarily suggested the violence of his desire. It was disconcerting and rather horrible. His life was strangely divorced from material things, and it was as though his body at times wreaked a fearful revenge on his spirit. The satyr in him suddenly took possession, and he was powerless in the grip of an instinct which had all the strength of the primitive forces of nature. It was an obsession so complete that there was no room in his soul for prudence or gratitude. “But why did you want to take her away with you?” I asked. “I didn’t,” he answered, frowning. “When she said she was coming I was nearly as surprised as Stroeve. I told her that when I’d had enough of her she’d have to go, and she said she’d risk that.” He paused a little. “She had a wonderful body, and I wanted to paint a nude. When I’d finished my picture I took no more interest in her.” “And she loved you with all her heart.” He sprang to his feet and walked up and down the small room.