For a moment Cyril saw red. His disappointment added fuel to his indignation. "Amy! How dare you come here?" he cried, striding towards her. She seemed in nowise affected by his anger; only her expression became, if possible, a trifle more contemptuous. "Your manners have sadly deteriorated since we parted," she remarked, raising her eyebrows superciliously. "Manners!" he exclaimed and his voice actually shook with rage. "May I ask how you expected to be received? Is it possible that you imagine that I am going to take you back?" Her eyes narrowed, but she still appeared quite unconcerned. "Do you know, I rather think you will," she drawled. "Take you back, now that you have tired of your lover or he has become disgusted with you, which is probably nearer the truth. Do you think I am mad, or are you?" He fancied that he saw her wince, but she replied calmly: "Do not let us indulge in mutual recriminations. They are so futile." "Mutual recriminations, indeed! I like that! What have you to reproach me with? Didn't I marry you to save you from disgrace and penury? Haven't I done everything I could to keep you straight?" She rose slowly from her seat and he noticed for the first time that she wore a low-cut gown of some diaphanous material, which revealed and yet softened the too delicate lines of her sinuous figure. Her black hair lay in thick waves around her face, completely covering the ears, and wound in a coil at the back of her neck. He had never seen it arranged in this fashion and reluctantly he had to admit that it was strangely becoming to her. A wide band of dull gold, set with uncut gems, encircled her head and added a barbaric note to her exotic beauty. It was his last gift to her, he remembered. Yes, she was still beautiful, he acknowledged, although the life she had led, had left its marks upon her. She looked older and frailer than when he had seen her last. But to-night the sunken eyes glowed with extraordinary brilliancy and a soft colour gave a certain roundness to her hollow cheeks. As she stood before him, Cyril was conscious, for the first time in years, of the alluring charm of her personality. She regarded him for a moment, her full red lips parted in an inscrutable smile. How well he recalled that smile! He could never fathom its meaning. In some mysterious way it suggested infinite possibilities. How he hated it! "You tried everything, I grant you," she said at last, "except the one thing which would have proved efficacious." "And what was that, pray?" "You never loved me." Her unexpected accusation made Cyril pause. Yes, it was true, he acknowledged to himself. Had he not realised it during the last few days as he had never done before? "You don't even take the trouble to deny it," she continued. "You married me out of pity and instead of being ashamed of it, you actually pride yourself on the purity of your motive."