dly breathe, and he felt his voice
growing thick.

"Not true! Then, if not she, who else? You are with her there all
day--she talks about me, she finds fault with me, and you come home and
see the faults she finds for you--"

"There is not a word of truth in what you say--"

"Do not be so angry, then! If it were not true, why should you care? I
have said it, and I will say it. She has robbed me of you. Oh, I will
never forgive her! Never fear! One does not forget such things! She has
got you, and she will keep you, I suppose. But you shall regret it! She
shall pay me for it!"

Her voice shook, for her jealousy was real, as was all her emotion while
it lasted.

"You shall not speak of her in that way," said Reanda, fiercely. "I owe
her and her family all that I am, all that I have in the world--"

"Including me!" interrupted Gloria. "Pay her then--pay her with your
love and yourself. You can satisfy your conscience in that way, and you
can break my heart."

"There is not the slightest fear of that," answered Reanda, cruelly.

She rose suddenly to her feet and stood before him, blazing with anger.

"If I could find yours--if you had any--I would break it," she said.
"You dare to say that I have no heart, when you can see that every word
you say thrusts it through like a knife, when I have loved you as no
woman ever loved man! I said it, and I repeat it--when I have given you
everything, and would have given you the world if I had it! Indeed, you
are utterly heartless and cruel and unkind--"

"At least, I am honest. I do not play a part as you do. I say plainly
that I do not love you and that I am sorry for it. Yes--really sorry."
His voice softened for an instant. "I would give a great deal to love
you as I once did, and to believe that you loved me--"

"You will tell me that I do not--"

"Indeed, I will tell you so, and that you never did--"

"Angelo--take care! You will go too far!"

"I could never go far enough in telling you that truth. You never loved
me. You may have thought you did. I do not care. You talk of devotion
and tenderness and all the like! Of being left alone and neglected! Of
going too far! What devotion have you ever shown to me, beyond
extravagantly praising everything I painted, for a few months after we
were married. Then you grew tired of my work. That is your affair. What
is it to me whether you admire my pictures or Mendoza's, or any other
man's? Do you think that is devotion? I