Estelle, his pure little Estelle! This painted, haggard woman would make a cat's-paw of her, drag her shamed name into the maw of the press, and stand aloof herself, an injured wife. And he--he--in his madness had been about to help her. Hidden by glamour of passion, how different it had been to this standing naked, showing its distorted limbs. Let sorrow come or go, he knew that he would not now drag the woman he loved into sinning. These are the world's laws, men say, yet surely God's laws also, since to break them means remorse and punishment. Slight bonds of custom, but holding sane humanity. "You have a curious mind," he said at last. "My God, have you no sense of right or wrong, Esmé--no shade of decency left?" "Oh, leave sermons to the Church," she said roughly. "And supposing"--he got up, stood facing her, man baited, driven to bay--"I were to divorce you, my wife?" "You can't," she said coolly. "If I stay out all night it's with companions. And look here, Bertie, I am sick of it all. I say, let me divorce you, or I'll take proceedings myself. If you are wise any woman of the streets will serve your purpose; if you are not, your pure Estelle's name will be in every paper. See!" She tossed a photograph across to him. A glimpse of sea and cliff, and two people asleep, lying close to a bank. Their faces were clear; the girl, lying back, had one hand outstretched; the man, his face against the bank, had his upon it. "Repose," said Esmé, coarse meaning in her voice, as every shade of colour whickered from her husband's face. "Repose by the sea." The girl's face was Estelle Reynolds; the man's his own. "Marie's young man is a photographer; he snapped this at the seaside one day in June, years ago. Marie brought it to me, commenting on the likeness to you. I kept it. Come, Bertie, give me freedom, or I'll take it." Holding the photograph, he saw what its evidence would mean. Idle to prate of innocence with this before the jury. It might be printed with a dozen suggestive names below it. His uncle would turn against him; Estelle would not get over it. "Well?" she said, watching him. "No, but ill," he answered. "Yes, it's true. We dropped asleep sitting looking at the sea. Pah! what use to tell you?... We merely dropped asleep. But if you show this there shall be counter action, Esmé." "As I said," she flung out defiantly--"if I stay out at night, it's with companions." He was ready with his counter-thrust; it darted, swift and true. "From what companion," he asked slowly, "do you get your money? Do you think me a fool, Esmé, not to have noticed all that you spend and pay?" The colour ebbed from her face now, leaving the reddened mouth, the rouged cheeks, standing out unnaturally. Evidence was so easy to find and trump up; she wanted her freedom, but with her name untouched--it was her one chance. "I've known for months or more that there was someone," he went on. "There is such a thing as common intelligence, Esmé."