my own face? I never asked any other woman to marry me, and this settles it – I never will! You've finished yourself and your sex for me!"
She was crying now, her head in her hands, and the bronze-red hair dishevelled, sagging between her long, white fingers.
He remained aloof, knowing her, and always afraid of her and of himself together – a very deadly combination for mischief. And she remained bowed in the attitude of despair, her lithe young body shaken.
His was naturally a lightly irresponsible disposition, and it came very easily for him to console beauty in distress – or out of it, for that matter. Why he was now so fastidious with his conscience in regard to Mrs. Clydesdale he himself scarcely understood, except that he had once asked her to marry him; and that he knew her husband. These two facts seemed to keep him steady. Also, he rather liked her burly husband; and he had almost recovered from the very real pangs which had pierced him when she suddenly flung him over and married Clydesdale's millions.
One of the logs had burned out. He rose to replace it with another. When he returned to the sofa, she looked up at him so pitifully that he bent over and caressed her hair. And she put one arm around his neck, crying, uncomforted.
"It won't do," he said; "it won't do. And you know it won't, don't you? This whole business is dead wrong – dead rotten. But you mustn't cry, do you hear? Don't be frightened. If there's trouble, I'll stand by you, of course. Hush, dear, the house is full of servants. Loosen your arms, Elena! It isn't a square deal to your husband – or to you, or even to me. Unless people have an even chance with me – men or women – there's nothing dangerous about me. I never dealt with any man whose eyes were not wide open – nor with any woman, either. Cary's are shut; yours are blinded."
She sprang up and walked to the fire and stood there, her hands nervously clenching and unclenching.
"When I tell you that my eyes are wide open – that I don't care what I do – "
"But your husband's eyes are not open!"
"They ought to be. I left a note saying where I was going – that rather than be his wife I'd prefer to be your – "
"Stop! You don't know what you're talking about – you little idiot!" he broke out, furious. "The very words you use don't mean anything to you – except that you've read them in some fool's novel, or heard them on a degenerate stage – "
"My words will mean something to him, if I can make them!" she retorted hysterically, " – and if you really care for me – "
Through the throbbing silence Desboro seemed to see Clydesdale, bulky, partly sober, with his eternal grin and permanently-flushed skin, rambling about among his porcelains and enamels and jades and ivories, like a drugged elephant in a bric-a-brac shop. And yet, there had always been a certain kindly harmlessness and good nature about him that had always appealed to men.
He said, incredulously: "Did you write to him what you have just said to me?"
"Yes."
"You actually left such a note for him?"
"Yes, I did."
The silence lasted long enough for her to become uneasy. Again and again she lifted her tear-swollen face to look at him, where he stood before the fire, but he did not even glance at her; and at last she murmured his name, and he turned.
"I guess you've done for us both," he said. "You're probably right; nobody would believe the truth after this."
She began to cry again silently.
He said: "You never gave your husband a chance. He was in love with you and you never gave him a chance. And you're giving yourself none, now. And as for me" – he laughed unpleasantly – "well, I'll leave it to you, Elena."
"I – I thought – if I burned my bridges and came to you – "
"What did you think?"
"That you'd stand by me, Jim."
"Have I any other choice?" he asked, with a laugh. "We seem to be a properly damned couple."
"Do – do you care for any other woman?"
"No."
"Then – then – "
"Oh, I am quite free to stand the consequences with you."
"Will you?"
"Can we escape them?"
"You could."
"I'm not in the habit of leaving a sinking ship," he said curtly.
"Then – you will marry me – when – " She stopped short and turned very white. After a moment the doorbell rang again.
Desboro glanced at the clock, then shrugged.
"Wh – who is it?" she faltered.
"It's probably somebody after you, Elena."
"It can't be. He wouldn't come, would he?"
The bell sounded again.
"What are you going to do?" she breathed.
"Do? Let him in."
"Who do you think it is?"
"Your husband, of course."
"Then – why are you going to let him in?"
"To talk it over with him."
"But – but I don't know what he'll do. I don't know him, I tell you. What do I know about him – except that he's big and red? How do I know what might be hidden behind that fixed grin of his?"
"Well, we'll find out in a minute or two," said Desboro coolly.
"Jim! You must stand by me now!"
"I've done it so far, haven't I? You needn't worry."
"You won't let him take me back! He can't, can he?"
"Not if you refuse to go. But you won't refuse – if he's man enough to ask you to return."
"But – suppose he won't ask me to go back?"
"In that case I'll stand for what you've done. I'll marry you if he means to disgrace you. Now let's see what he does mean."
She caught his sleeve as he passed her, then let it go. The steady ringing of the bell was confusing and terrifying her, and she glanced about her like a trapped creature, listening to the distant jingling of chains and the click of bolts as Desboro undid the outer door.
Silence, then a far sound in the hall, footsteps coming nearer, nearer; and she dropped stiffly on the sofa as Desboro entered, followed by Cary Clydesdale in fur motor cap, coat and steaming goggles.
Desboro motioned her husband to a chair, but the man stood looking at his wife through his goggles, with a silly, fixed grin stamped on his features. Then he drew off the goggles and one fur gauntlet, fumbled in his overcoat, produced the crumpled note which she had left for him, laid it on the table between them, and sat down heavily, filling the leather armchair with his bulk. His bare red hand steamed. After a moment's
