“It is useless for me to waste words with you.” Marjorie Benton, usually so calm, so cool, so complete mistress of herself, lost all control in this crisis. She spoke bitterly. “I can never bring you to see things from my viewpoint, and I could never stoop to your level to discuss them.” “Stop!” Geraldine commanded angrily as she hurriedly rose. “You may go a bit too far—even with me, Mrs. Benton. I came here at your request, and have submitted calmly to your insults because, in my heart, I pity you! But I refuse to allow you to presume any further. Up to now your husband has simply been my friend and counselor. But he cares for me—I know he does—and I shall act accordingly!” Marjorie eyed her disdainfully. “So it’s threats, now!” “Merely fair warning.” Gaining confidence in herself each moment, Geraldine DeLacy was twisting the iron. “Then you will deliberately step in between husband and wife?” For her, Marjorie Benton was almost pleading, but her plea was made to a woman soulless, caring only for what might best further her own interests. “I cannot come into Hugh Benton’s life,” answered that woman, weighing each word with cruel deliberation, “unless he is willing for me to do so—therefore, I think the matter rests entirely with him, and neither you nor I have a right to discuss it.” Mrs. Hugh Benton, her self-control all miraculously returned, an unaccustomed red spot on either pale cheek, rose in all her dignity. “Your impertinence, Mrs. DeLacy,” she commented dryly, “is beyond comprehension. I regret exceedingly having requested you to call, but having done so, I now request you to leave!” CHAPTER X As though at the prearranged signal of the same imp that had been taking such a hand in Marjorie Benton’s affairs, it was at this dramatic moment that Hugh Benton entered the room. He was mystified, worried, at what he saw; uneasy, too, at seeing the woman he believed he had come to love in an obvious altercation with his wife. Two angry women, almost too intent on their own belligerency to notice his appearance, faced each other. His own wife, those two angry red spots on her white withered cheeks, stood like some accusing goddess with hand pointing to the door, her eyes never leaving those dark flaming ones of Geraldine DeLacy. What could it mean? Had Hugh’s conscience been a clear one, he could not have been more dumfounded at the scene that greeted him. It was Geraldine DeLacy who saw him first. She turned to him appealingly, her eyes asking for sympathy and understanding. She laughed nervously as she answered the question he had not found voice to form. “Your wife has just requested me to leave, Mr. Benton,” she told him. “Requested you to leave? Why Marjorie,” Hugh turned to his wife perturbed, “what does this mean?” “I prefer not to discuss it now, Hugh.” Marjorie replied as calmly as she could. “I will explain to you—when we are alone.”