He said patiently:  “You had nothing to give but your fortune, and you gave it.”

“Yes.”

“Which settles your obligations toward them—­puts them so deeply for ever in your debt that—­” He hesitated, considering the chances, then, seriously persuasive: 

“They are now in your debt, Shiela.  They have sufficient proof of your unselfish affection for them to stand a temporary little shock.  Why don’t you administer it?”

“What shock?”—­in an altered voice.

“Your divorce.”

“I thought you were meaning that.”

“I do mean it.  You ought to have your freedom; you are ruining your own life and Hamil’s, and—­and—­”

“Yours?”

“Let that go,” he said almost savagely; “I can always get along.  But I want you to have your freedom to marry that damned fool, Hamil.”

The quick blood stung her face under his sudden blunt brutality.

“You think that because I returned a little money to my family, it entitles me to publicly disgrace them?”

Malcourt’s patience was fast going.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Shiela, shed your swaddling clothes and act like something adult.  Is there any reason why two people situated as we are cannot discuss sensibly some method of mitigating our misfortune?  I’ll do anything you say in the matter.  Divorce is a good thing sometimes.  This is one of the times, and I’ll give you every reason for a successful suit against me—­”

She rose, cheeks aflame, and in her eyes scorn ungovernable.

He rose too, exasperated.

“You won’t consider it?” he asked harshly.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not coward enough to ask others to bear the consequences of my own folly and yours!”

“You little fool,” he said, “do you think your family would let you endure me for one second if they knew how you felt?  Or what I am likely to do at any moment?”

She stood, without replying, plainly waiting for him to leave the room and her apartments.  All her colour had fled.

“You know,” he said, with an ugly glimmer in his eyes, “I need not continue this appeal to your common sense, if you haven’t got any; I can force you to a choice.”

“What choice?”—­in leisurely contempt.

He hesitated; then, insolently:  “Your choice between—­honest wifehood and honest divorce.”

For a moment she could not comprehend:  suddenly her hands contracted and clinched as the crimson wave stained her from throat to brow.  But in her eyes was terror unutterable.

“I—­I beg—­your pardon,” he stammered.  “I did not mean to frighten you—­”

But at his first word she clapped both hands over her ears, staring at him in horror—­backing away from him, shrinking flat against the wall.

“Confound it!  I am not threatening you,” he said, raising his voice; but she would not hear another word—­he saw that now—­and, with a shrug, he walked past her, patient once more, outwardly polite, inwardly bitterly amused, as he heard the key snap in the door behind him.