"Ask her. She didn't care what she said to me any more than she cared, after a while, what she did to me. You made her yours, soul and body; she became only your creature, caring less and less for concealment as her infatuation grew from coquetry to imprudence, from recklessness to effrontery.... It's the women of our sort, who, once misled, stop at nothing--not the men. Prudence to the point of cowardice is the amatory characteristic of your sort.... I don't mean physical cowardice," he added, lifting his sunken eyes and letting them rest on Sprowl's powerful frame. "Have you finished?" asked the latter. "In a moment, Langly. I am merely reminding you of what has happened. Concerning myself I have nothing to say. Look at me. You know what I was; you see what I am. I'm not whining; it's all in a lifetime. And the man who is not fitted to take care of what is his, loses. That's all." Sprowl's head was averted after an involuntary glance at the man before him. His face was red--or it may have been the ruddy evening sun striking flat across it. Ledwith said: "You will marry her, of course. But I merely wish to hear you say so." Sprowl swung on him, his thick lips receding: "I'll marry whom I choose! Do you understand that?" "Of course. But you will choose to marry her." "Do you think so?" "Yes. Or--I'll kill you," he said seriously. Langly stared at him, every vein suddenly dark and swollen; then his bark of a laugh broke loose. "I suppose you've got it in your pocket," he said. Ledwith fumbled in his coat pocket and produced a dully blued weapon of heavy calibre; and Sprowl walked slowly up to him, slapped his face, took the revolver from him, and flung it into the woods. "Now go home and punch yourself full of dope," he said; swung on his heel, and sauntered off. Ledwith looked after him, one bloodless hand resting on the cheek which Sprowl had struck--watched him out of sight. Then, patiently, he started to search for the weapon, dropping on all-fours, crawling, peering, parting the ferns and bushes. But the sun was low and the woods dusky, and he could not find what he was looking for. So he sat up on the ground among the dead leaves of other years, drew from his pocket what he needed, and slowly bared his scarred arm to the shoulder. As for Sprowl, his vigorous tread lengthened to a swinging stride as he shouldered his way through a thicket and out again into the open. Already he scarcely remembered Ledwith at all, or his menace, or the blow; scarcely even recollected that Mary Ledwith had returned or that his aunt was within driving distance of his own quarters. A dull hot anguish, partly rage, possessed him, tormenting brain and heart incessantly and giving him no rest. His own clumsy madness in destroying what he believed had been a certainty--his stupidity, his loss of self-control, not only in betraying passion prematurely but in his subsequent violence and brutality, almost drove him insane.