He flung himself into another chair on the opposite side of the
fireplace, locked his fingers about one knee, and regarded her
judicially, as if his whole mind were concentrated upon the problem she
was stating. In reality, he was absorbed by the extraordinary nature
of the situation, and lost in admiration of the picture she presented.
Were she posing for a portrait to be painted, she could not have chosen
her position more effectively. The firelight brought out a golden tone
from her brown skirt. It was lost in the softness of her velvet waist
and hair, to reappear mysteriously in her eyes. She had thrown her
crimson cloak over the back of the chair, and it formed a rippling band
of colour on each side of her figure. Surely, here was a Portrait of a
Lady that would have made an artist famous, could he have done it to
the life.

She spoke of her struggle with Emmet as it she were stating an
hypothetical case for his dispassionate consideration. Her apparent
coolness filled him with amazement, but he recognised that she had
adopted the only attitude that could justify the interview and preserve
her own dignity. His emotions were held in suspension; he even felt he
had none, so compelling was the effect of her serious and impersonal
frankness. Yet he saw she was not really frank with him. She omitted
entirely to mention certain elements in the situation which she must
have known that he knew from her husband's confession to him.

His eyes, fixed upon her own, were filled with speculation, and he was
unconscious of the inquisitorial effect they produced upon her. He was
thinking how very different she was from what he had at first supposed,
and how this gradual opening of his eyes to hitherto unsuspected vistas
of her character had not changed for one moment the fact of his love
for her. She might vacillate and doubt,--she seemed to do so now,--but
questionings, retreats, advances, refusals, were for women.

Finally, she spoke of the possibility of going back to Emmet, and he
felt that he could not bear it. It was this very thing which he had
decided to protest against, and now his opportunity had come. Every
word tortured him, filled him with fury against her for the folly of
such a sacrifice, with fury also against the fate that forbade him to
plead his own cause and to open her eyes to her husband's motives. He
arose from his chair and began to pace the room feverishly, tempted
each moment to pause,