The fire crackled on the hearth; my wife did not take her eyes from the old actor’s face. A black cat strolled leisurely across the room and stretched itself before the fire. He continued: “It was then that I experienced an entirely novel vision of woman’s character. Sophie, who would not marry O’Bane because he was rich, and who shivered with disgust in the presence of Annabel Peacock, developed an amazing affection and interest for their child. We were out again in the Capacity Company. I had her all to myself. I laid siege to her heart. I was patient, tactful, importunate, imploring, passionate. But it was all no good, my boy ... no good at all. Heigho! would you believe it?—for ten years of my life from that date I was that woman’s slave, and she was the slave of Terry’s child. Company after company I joined in order to be with her. I gave up good parts. I sacrificed leads, and in fact I even accepted a walk-on—anything to be with Sophie. Sophie, who would not listen to me, who treated me like a little pet, to run hither and thither, and who spent all her money and time on toys and clothes for Terry’s child. Would you believe it?” To my surprise, my wife spoke for the first time. She said: “Yes.” Brancker looked at her keenly, and nodded. “Yes. In any affair between a man and a woman, a man finds himself at a disadvantage. Mademoiselle, you see, understands. Women have all kinds of mysterious intuitions and senses which we wot not of. She is armed at every point. She has more resources. She is better-equipped than man. Sophie even made a friend of Annabel. She wrote her loving letters and called her ‘my dearest.’ For you must know that two years after his marriage my old friend Terry O’Bane went under. He awakened one night feeling ill; he groped in a chest where he usually kept a flask of brandy. He took a gulp. The liquid he drew into his throat was pure liquid ammonia which Annabel had been using for photographic work. She was a keen amateur photographer. He rushed out into the street in his pajamas, and died in the arms of a policeman at the corner.” The horror of this episode was written plainly in the old man’s face. He delivered it with a kind of dramatic despair, as though he knew it had to be told and he could not control himself. Then he seemed to fall to pieces, and lay huddled at the back of his chair. I looked at Alice furtively, and I could see a tear swimming on the brink of her eye. It was some moments before he could continue.