“On that day you believed in me—­” In his earnestness he no longer simulated Chilcote; he spoke with his own steady reliance.  He saw Eve stir, unclasp and clasp her hands, but he went steadily on.  “On that day you saw me in a new light.  You acknowledged me.”  He emphasized the slightly peculiar word.  “But since that day”—­his voice quickened “since that day your feelings have changed—­your faith in me has fallen away.”  He watched her closely; but she made no sign, save to lean still nearer to the fire.  He crossed his arms over the back of her chair.  “You were justified,” he said, suddenly.  “I’ve not been—­myself since that day.”  As he said the words his coolness forsook him slightly.  He loathed the necessary lie, yet his egotism clamored for vindication.  “All men have their lapses,” he went on; “there are times—­there are days and weeks when I—­when my—­” The word “nerves” touched his tongue, hung upon it, then died away unspoken.

Very quietly, almost without a sound, Eve had risen and turned towards him.  She was standing very straight, her face a little pale, the hand that rested on the arm of her chair trembling slightly.

“John,” she said, quickly, “don’t say that word?  Don’t say that hideous word `nerves’!  I don’t feel that I can bear it to-night—­not just to-night.  Can you understand?”

Loder stepped back.  Without comprehending, he felt suddenly and strangely at a loss.  Something in her face struck him silent and perplexed.  It seemed that without preparation he had stepped upon dangerous ground.  With an undefined apprehension he waited, looking at her.

“I can’t explain it,” she went on with nervous haste, “I can’t give any reasons, but quite suddenly the—­the farce has grown unbearable.  I used not to think—­used not even to care—­but suddenly things have changed—­or I have changed.”  She paused, confused and distressed.  “Why should it be?  Why should things change?” She asked the question sharp. ly, as if in appeal against her own incredulity.

Loder turned aside.  He was afraid of the triumph, volcanic and irrepressible, that her admission roused.

“Why?” she said again.

He turned slowly back.  “You forget that I’m not a magician,” he said, gently.  “I hardly know what you are speaking of.”

For a moment she was silent, but in that moment her eyes spoke.  Pain, distress, pride, all strove for expression; then at last her lips parted.

“Do you say that in seriousness?” she asked.

It was no moment for fencing, and Loder knew it.  “In seriousness,” he replied, shortly.

“Then I shall speak seriously, too.”  Her voice shook slightly and the color came back into her face, but the hand on the arm of the chair ceased to tremble.  “For more than four years I have known that you take drugs—­for more than four years I have acquiesced in your deceptions—­in your meannesses—­”