‘Oh, you are bloodless!’ she answered passionately--‘a bloodless prig! There is nothing of the man in you. Have you _nothing_ in your veins--no warmth, no life at all--that you can go on talking these frigid fancies of yours? Where do you come from--what are you? What are you made of? Can you feed your passions with these romantic metaphysics? What’ll they give you? Will they warm you when you are cold--with Gundred? Will they feed you, when you are starved--by Gundred? Will they give you company, when you are alone--with Gundred? Talk of your honour and mine! Our love is our honour. There is nothing else in the world. Gundred is nothing; there is no such thing as Gundred. I have blotted her out of existence!’ Never had the pagan egoism of Isabel been more terrifying, more repulsive. Through his love he hated her as he watched the cruel swift sneer of her nostrils as she talked of his wife. ‘Have you no shred of pity?’ he asked quietly. ‘Think of Gundred. The most damnable thing in the world has happened to her. She has given herself--her whole self--and got nothing in exchange. Can’t you at least let her have pity and respect? Poor little Gundred! I thought it was a square bargain when I struck it. I thought I gave her all I had to give. I swear I thought so. And yet all the time I belonged to you, Isabel, and you to me. Don’t you see that the only thing we can do now in common honesty is to spare Gundred all we can, and spare ourselves the dishonour of cheating Gundred even more than we have already?’ But Isabel was beyond appeals, frankly barbarous and merciless. ‘Gundred took her risks. All women do when they marry,’ she said. ‘And now she does not count any longer. What sort of man are you, to be pining about Gundred when I am here by your side? Look at me--yes, look, look--and see how long you can remember Gundred.’ She fixed his gaze with burning eyes. But he turned away his head and refused to take up the challenge.