l you that I'll divorce
her with every circumstance of disgrace to you both, unless you swear to
keep clear of each other from now on."

He was astonished at his fluency, because his mind was stammering and
his hands twitching. Neither of them answered; but their faces seemed to
him as if contemptuous.

"Well," he said; "you--Irene?"

Her lips moved, but Jolyon laid his hand on her arm.

"Let her alone!" said Soames furiously. "Irene, will you swear it?"

"No."

"Oh! and you?"

"Still less."

"So then you're guilty, are you?"

"Yes, guilty." It was Irene speaking in that serene voice, with that
unreached air which had maddened him so often; and, carried beyond
himself, he cried:

"You are a devil"

"Go out! Leave this house, or I'll do you an injury."

That fellow to talk of injuries! Did he know how near his throat was to
being scragged?

"A trustee," he said, "embezzling trust property! A thief, stealing his
cousin's wife."

"Call me what you like. You have chosen your part, we have chosen ours.
Go out!"

If he had brought a weapon Soames might have used it at that moment.

"I'll make you pay!" he said.

"I shall be very happy."

At that deadly turning of the meaning of his speech by the son of him
who had nicknamed him 'the man of property,' Soames stood glaring. It
was ridiculous!

There they were, kept from violence by some secret force. No blow
possible, no words to meet the case. But he could not, did not know how
to turn and go away. His eyes fastened on Irene's face--the last time he
would ever see that fatal face--the last time, no doubt!

"You," he said suddenly, "I hope you'll treat him as you treated
me--that's all."

He saw her wince, and with a sensation not quite triumph, not quite
relief, he wrenched open the door, passed out through the hall, and got
into his cab. He lolled against the cushion with his eyes shut. Never in
his life had he been so near to murderous violence, never so thrown away
the restraint which was his second nature. He had a stripped and
naked feeling, as if all virtue had gone out of him--life meaningless,
mind-striking work. Sunlight streamed in on him, but he felt cold. The
scene he had passed through had gone from him already, what was before
him would not materialise, he could catch on to nothing; and he felt
frightened, as if he had been hanging over the edge of a precipice, as
if with another turn of the screw sanity would have failed him. 'I'm n