‘I think I _have_ admitted it!’ she said ironically. ‘Fully and freely! For I have given everything; equally you have taken everything! That is plain enough. And now you insult me afresh by the suggestion that it was really a condescension on your part to marry me at all, I being “literary”! If I had been a music-hall dancer, of course you would have been much prouder of me; it would have been something indeed worth boasting of, to say your wife had originally been famous for a break-down or can-can at the “Empire!” But because I follow, with what force and ability I can, the steps of the truly great, who have helped to mould the thoughts and feelings of men and nations, it is quite extraordinary I should have found a husband at all! Wonderful! And you have given me a great position, you assert. I confess I fail to perceive it! If you consider your title something of value, I am sorry for you; to me it is a nothing. In the old days of chivalry titles meant honour; now they have become, for the most part, the mere results of wealth and back-stair influence. Yours is an old title, I grant you that; but what does it matter? The latest brewer raised to the peerage puts himself on an equality with you, whether you like it or not. But between me—untitled Delicia Vaughan—and the self-same peer of the ale-cask, there is a great gulf fixed; and not all his wealth can put him on an equality with _me_, or with any author who has once won the love of nations. And so, Lord Carlyon, permit me to return your title, for I shall not wear it. When we separate I shall keep to my own name simply; thus I shall owe you nothing, not even _prestige_!’ Carlyon suddenly lifted his fine eyes and flashed them effectively at her. ‘You are talking nonsense, Delicia,’ he said impatiently. ‘You know you don’t really mean that we are to separate. Why,’ this with the most naïve conceit, ‘what will you do without me?’ She met his gaze without the least emotion. ‘I shall continue to live, I suppose,’ she replied, ‘or I shall die, one of the two. It really doesn’t matter which.’ There was a slight tremor in her voice, and emboldened by it he sprang up and tried to put his arm round her. She recoiled from him swiftly, thrusting him back. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she cried wildly. ‘Don’t dare to come near me! I cannot answer for myself if you do; this shall defend me from you if necessary!’ And almost before he could realise it she had snatched a small, silver-mounted pistol from its case on a shelf hard by, and, holding it in her hand, she stood as it were at bay. He gave a short, embarrassed laugh. ‘You have gone mad, Delicia!’ he said. ‘Put down that thing. It isn’t loaded, of course; but it doesn’t look pretty to see you with it.’