She did not speak again for a moment, seemingly intent upon the exact measurement of the ingredients of her salad. In reality she was considering how best to present what she had to say. She mentally ran over the points she wished to make, becoming thereby conscious that she had herself come to no definite conclusions upon the topic she was about to discuss. She looked furtively at her husband, noting his attitude, his expression, and whatever her past experience enabled her to construe into indications of his mood. As well and as long as she had known this man, she was still ignorant of the key to his nature--that feeling or motive which, touched in an ultimate appeal, would always insure a response. Conscience is the fruit of the tree of experience, and, taken in this sense, every man must be possessed of a conscience, which by its inner voice re-enforces any pleading which coincides with its dictates. What was the nature of her husband's inward monitor Helen had never been able to discover and at this moment she realized keenly her ignorance. "Will," she said earnestly, laying down her salad-fork and spoon, "I think it is wrong for us to live as we do." He shrugged his shoulders, looking at her curiously. "I cannot flatter myself that you care to return to the old uncomfortableness." She flushed warmly, with a keen pang of mingled pain and indignation. "No," she replied. "No; never that. It is not for ourselves, but for others." "Others! Fenton?" She flushed more deeply still. "I have told you already that you are mistaken about my regard for Arthur. It was not he I meant." She served her guest, and sat playing nervously with her fork as he ate and praised the salad. "Mr. Herman sent for me the other afternoon," she began again, forcing herself to speak calmly. "My model Ninitta is very fond of him, and chose to be jealous of his praise of my work. It might have all gone over without an outburst, I suppose, if she had not had her attention called to the fact that I had modeled his head for December. Why she had never happened to notice it I don't know; she was in the studio constantly." "Not when he was there?" queried Dr. Ashton, holding up his graceful, antique wine-glass and admiring it. "No, not when he was there," repeated his wife. "She had pounded off the head when he sent for me with a mallet she had picked up in his studio. I never saw him in such a rage. She was gone when I got there. She didn't make any attempt to conceal it. She came stalking melodramatically into his studio with the mallet and laid it down. 'There,' said she, 'now kill me. I have broken her work.' It was like a fashion magazine story. He thought at first she had gone mad." "So she had. Women are always insane when they are jealous. I wish I had Arthur's knack at epigram, and I'd make that sound original."