“Don’t make a scene. I hate it. That’s why I stayed away, so as to put a cooling night in front of our interview. But I want an explanation, and I think I’m entitled to it.” Irene looked at him helplessly. She was on the high seas, rudderless. “I thought you would willingly have given your life for Hugh,” she said. “You were deeply moved--said there was nothing you would not give. The scheme flashed on me. I never doubted your assent--as God hears me, Gerard, I felt the certainty like an inspiration.” “Damned funny inspiration to fancy that I would tamely agree to your infidelities with another man.” “But didn’t you understand?” she gasped. “Perfectly. But I’m not the sort of man to share my wife with anybody--even with my dearest friend.” The world was rocking. Her senses swam. She lost heed of surroundings. Found herself saying in a silly way: “But it was all a lie, Gerard. I thought you knew.” He looked at her for a moment or two and then thumped his fist on the dining-table. The shock upset a little epergne of flowers and the water flooded the dark-red table-cover. “And I say it wasn’t a lie. There!” “Gerard!” The voice, pitched high, rang through the house. A cry of terror, incredulity, reproach. They remained looking at each other he doggedly, unmoved, with slightly crossed eyes; she in blank anguish of amazement. “I don’t beat about the bush. I come straight to the point. You and Colman carried on behind my back. Do you suppose I was fool enough not to see it? I was only biding my time. It came sooner than I expected. A _coup de théâtre_. I thought something was wrong by the unnecessary state of excitement you have been in the last few weeks. It must have been exciting, with a vengeance! All I can say is, that I admire your pluck. How long has this been going on? Tell me.” “It was a mere invention--pure perjury--to save his life--your friend--my friend. What am I to say? “Oh, my God, Gerard!” she burst out. “You are not in earnest--you are angry--saying this to try me, for some reason that I don’t understand.” The thought of his belief in her sworn statement had never entered her mind during the most fear-racked moment. The fact dazed her. He shook his great shoulders impatiently. “You had better give it up and answer my question.” “I have answered it--my whole life with you has answered it.” “It has,” he sneered. “And more fool I for not having taken the answer before. And I tell you, I was getting pretty sick of it--the eternal Hugh, Hugh--damn him!--in every sentence you uttered--the everlasting sight of him in the house----” “But I thought he was as dear to you as I was!” broke in Irene, aghast. “It suited your purpose to think so. I never told you so. I’m sick of it--utterly sick of it. Sick of your flim-flammeries of philosophy and the higher life and noble work in the world and all that rot. And now I’m heartily glad it’s over.” “Over?” she echoed, falteringly.