"No; go on," said she.

"I should have told you. But you would not. And in an hour of moral weakness I fell. Ah, you do not know what such temptations mean!" he cried. "You have no right to judge."

Again Marie got up, and in a sudden restlessness began to pace up and down the room.

"I do know," she said. "I have felt it all. But this is the difference between me and certain others. You--you, I mean--Mildred, anybody, say, 'I desire something; and, after all, what does it matter?' Others and I say, 'It does not signify what I desire, and there is nothing in the world which matters more.' Oh, Jack, Jack!"--and for the second time she looked at him--"there is the vital and the eternal difference between us," she went on, speaking very slowly and weighing her words. "It is in this that there lies the one great incompatibility. If I were as you, if I could conceivably take the same view as you take, and think it possible that I should be able to be to another what Mildred has been to you, I would condone everything, because I should understand it. It would not matter then whether I had reached, as you have, the natural outcome of that possibility. If I could soberly imagine myself in that relation to another man than you, I would confess that there was no earthly reason why we should not continue to live comfortably together.

But I cannot. I am not an adulteress. Therefore I will not, in act or in name, live with you any longer."

Then for one moment she blazed up.

"And it was you, you who have been living like this," she cried, "who could tell me to be careful, for fear people should talk! It was you who told me you had heard an evil, foolish tale about me! Go to your mistress!"

She stood up, pointing with an unsteady hand to the door. Cell after secret cell of her brain caught the fire, and blazed with white-hot indignation. That consuming intensity was rapid. Soon all was burned.

"You had better go, Jack," she said quietly.

He rose.

"I do not wish to argue with you," he said, "nor shall I now or henceforth put in any defence. But--and I say this not in the least hope of influencing the decision you have made--remember that a certain number of weeks ago I should have come back to you and I should have told you. I am speaking the truth. That is nearly all. You will find it more convenient, no doubt, to stay here for the present. I shall be at the Carlton. And--and----"

His voice for the first time faltered and his lip quivered.

"And I am sorry, Marie. You may not believe it now nor for years to come. But it is true. Good-bye."

He went out of the room without stopping, without even looking at her, and she was left alone again. That moment of pa.s.sionate outburst had tried her; she felt weary, done for. But almost immediately Lady Ardingly entered again.

"I heard him go down-stairs, my dear," she said, "but I did not see him.

I hope you gave it him hot!"

"Yes, I suppose you might call it that," said Marie.

"Well, my dear, let us talk things over. You have decided to take a very grave step. I know that without your telling me. You ought to consider carefully what will be the result. A woman who has divorced her husband cannot, for some reason, hold her head very high in England. She is, at any rate, always liable to meet people who insist on looking calmly over it, and not seeing her. That cannot be pleasant. She is thus driven into the country or else into philanthropy. I do not think either will suit you."

"I know all that," said Marie. "But neither will it suit me, as you put it, to live with Jack."

"No, my dear; I understand," said Lady Ardingly. "There is a choice of evils----"

"Ah, that is the point," said Marie. "There is no choice."

"So you think at present. I will try to show you that there is. Now think well what you are doing. You ruin yourself. That weighs nothing with you just now, because you are in pain, and nothing seems to matter when one is in pain. Then, you are utterly ruining Jack. That seems to you to matter less than nothing. Why? Because you are simply thinking about yourself, let me tell you, and your own notions of right and wrong, which are no doubt excellent."

"Because I am thinking about myself?" said Marie.

"Yes, of course. You do not mind ruining Jack's whole career. He has been offered the War Office. You stop all that, and, what matters more, you annihilate all that he will certainly do for the country. He is not an ordinary man; he is in some ways, perhaps, a great one. It is certain, anyhow, that the country believes in him and that your Empire needs him. But you stop all that like--" and she blew out the match with which she had lit her cigarette.

Marie shook her head.

"I have thought it over," she said. "It means nothing to me. I cannot go on living with him. And I will be legally set free."

Lady Ardingly thought a moment. She never wasted words, and saw clearly that the needs of the Empire were a barren discussion.

"Supposing you had had a child by him, my dear?" she said gently.

"G.o.d has spared me that," said Marie. "We need not discuss it."

Next moment Lady Ardingly could have boxed her own ears at her own stupidity.

"And Maud?" she said. "Have you thought of her?"

Marie pushed away the footstool on which her feet were resting.

"Maud," she said--"Maud Brereton?"

"Yes, my dear. She, too, is burned in your suttee. Oh, you will have a fine blaze!"

For the first moment she had a spark of hope.

"Maud!" said Marie again. "What has she done?"

"She has committed the great crime of being the daughter of your husband's mistress," said Lady Ardingly. "Otherwise I know nothing against her. Andrew, I should imagine, will divorce his wife, if you do anything. It will be pleasant for a young girl just beginning the world!

She was, I believe, perhaps going to marry Anthony Maxwell. That, too, will be off, like the British Empire. But they do not matter; only Lady Alston matters!"

"Ah, you pitiless woman!" cried Marie. "Do you not see how it is with me?"

Lady Ardingly patted her hand gently.

"My dear, I am not pitiless," she said; "but it would be cruel of me if I did not put these things before you as they are. It is no time for concealing the truth. You have been thinking only of yourself. All your fastidiousness and your purity has been revolted. You wish to vindicate that insult at whatever cost. I point out to you that the cost is a heavy one."

"But if I did--if I did," said Marie, her voice quavering, "would it stop Maud's marriage, for instance?"

"Mrs. Maxwell--Lady Maxwell, I beg her pardon--would a.s.suredly forbid the banns."

"But Anthony is of age," said Marie. "He would marry her."

"He could not. Even if he did, she would be the daughter of the divorced woman."

"But I can't help myself," cried Marie. "I could not go on living with Jack."

"You prefer to sacrifice innocent and guilty to sacrificing yourself,"

said Lady Ardingly. "My dear, we live in the world. It may seem to you that I am putting a low view before you, but I a.s.sert that you must take the world into account. Else what is the world for?"

There was a long silence, and the longer it lasted the more hopeful Lady Ardingly became. She would not have broken it even if to let it continue meant the abandonment of Bridge for the rest of her natural life. Of all her triumphs, there was none, given that she gained this, that did not weigh light compared to it. She hardly dared look at Marie for fear of breaking the spell; but once, raising her eyes, she saw that the other was looking straight in front of her, perfectly motionless, her hands on her lap. She knew that she herself had said her last word.

Her quiver of arguments was empty; she had nothing more.

Then Marie rose.