Barbara’s lip curled in derision: “Your servant’s too useful to discharge, so you pretend you haven’t caught her stealing! When we met to-night, I noticed a difference. I thought you must have seen in the papers about Eric’s death. When you kissed me so tenderly, my heart leapt; and I thought you really understood. Now I know . . .” The incisive scorn cut deeper as her failing voice died away. “Well?” “You _need_ me because I’m a woman. That’s why you insult me with your forgiveness. And that’s why you must divorce me, George. We’re divorced in spirit; and we should both be dishonoured if we put your _need_ in the place of love.” In the distance I heard the gong booming for dinner. Neave’s door opened and slammed. A cautious footfall, accompanied by a warning whistle, told me that O’Rane was making his way downstairs. “I shall not divorce you,” I told Barbara, “even if I could. And I can’t. You’ll be as independent of me in Seymour Street as if you were on a South Sea Island. But we mustn’t do anything irrevocable till we’re more cool-headed.” “But . . . this is impossible!,” Barbara cried. “If we find it impossible, I shan’t try to keep you.” As I followed her down to dinner, I wondered whether we either of us realized what we were saying. “Coming here to-day,” I told her, “I was thinking that life only becomes intolerable when there’s no love in it. If I can get back to the state we were in a fortnight ago . . .” “You’ll never do that. You’ll be very kind and attentive, as you always are; but I married you because I thought you understood. Now you’ve become like any other man who puts a cushion at my back or tucks a rug round my knees. I’m utterly, utterly indifferent to you!” On this, the first night of what she called for two years our “life in a gilded cage”, I was chiefly concerned that her indifference should be concealed from the sharp eyes of Neave and the abnormally sharp hearing of O’Rane. With the same intention or in her usual reaction to an audience, Barbara sparkled her way through dinner in a manner that set me wondering whether I had not waked from another nightmare; but, when we looked for her afterwards, she had disappeared; and, when I went—as a matter of form—to bid her good-night, she answered me through a locked door. Neave had asked me at dinner how long I was staying; and, when I reached my room, I found a note from Barbara: “_If I am to come at all, I had better come to-morrow. Mother has a big party this week-end._” I sat down in front of the fire and tried to picture our life on the day after to-morrow. Could Bertrand direct my paper if I found it necessary to live in Ireland? Was Ireland tolerable or even safe? Could I afford to keep two houses in commission if my wife refused to live with me. And how long would Barbara endure this spiritual starvation?