the sake—­of his art.  His art!  Great God!—­was there ever such a damnable farce—­since hell was invented?  Art!—­you—­you—­you!—­” crazed with jealous fury, he pointed at her with his yellow, shaking, skeleton fingers; and struggled to raise his voice above that rasping whisper until the cords of his scrawny neck stood out and his face was distorted with the strain of his effort—­“You! painted as a—­modest Quaker Maid,—­with all the charm of innocence,—­virtue, and religious piety in your face. You! And that picture will be exhibited—­and written about—­as a work of art! You’ll pull all the strings,—­and use all your influence,—­and the thing—­will be received as a—­masterpiece.”

“And,” she added calmly, “you will write a check—­and lie, as you did this afternoon.”

Without heeding her remark, he went on,—­“You know the picture is worthless.  He knows it,—­Conrad Lagrange knows it,—­Jim Rutlidge knows it,—­the whole damned clique and gang of you know it, He’s like all his kind,—­a pretender,—­a poser,—­playing into the hands—­of such women as you; to win social position—­and wealth.  And we and our kind—­we pretend to believe—­in such damned parasites,—­and exalt them and what we—­call their art,—­and keep them in luxury, and buy their pictures;—­because they prostitute—­their talents to gratify our vanity.  We know it’s all a damned sham—­and a pretense that if they were real artists,—­with an honest workman’s respect for their work,—­they wouldn’t—­recognize us.”

“Don’t forget to send him a check,”—­she murmured—­“you can’t afford to neglect it, you know—­think how people would talk.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied.  “There’ll be no talk.  I’ll send the genius his check—­for making love—­to my wife in the sacred name of art,—­and I’ll lie—­about his picture with—­the rest of you.  But there will be—­no more of your intimacy with him.  You’re my wife,—­in spite of hell,—­and from now on—­I’ll see—­that you are true—­to me.  Your sickening pose—­of modesty in dress shall be something—­more than a pose.  For the little time I have left,—­I’ll have—­you to—­myself or I’ll kill you.”

His reference to her refusal to uncover her shoulders in public broke the woman’s calm and aroused her to a cold fury.  Springing to her feet, she stood over him as he sat huddled in his chair, exhausted by his effort.

“What is your silly, idle threat beside the fact,” she said with stinging scorn.  “To have killed me, instead of making me your wife, would have been a kindness greater than you are capable of.  You know how unspeakably vile you were when you bought me.  You know how every hour of my life with you has been a torment to me.  You should be grateful that I have helped you to live your lie—­that I have played the game of respectability with you—­that I am willing to play it a little while longer, until you lay down your hand for good, and release us both.