"But she won't stay," said Angela.

"But she will," said Eugene; "and if she don't stay, she goes with me. I
will take her home."

"Oh, no, you won't!" replied Angela.

"Listen," said Eugene angrily. "This isn't six years ago, but now. I'm
master of this situation, and she stays here. She stays here, or she
goes with me and you look to the future as best you may. I love her. I'm
not going to give her up, and if you want to make trouble, begin now.
The house comes down on your head, not mine."

"Oh!" said Angela, half terrified, "what do I hear?"

"Just that. Now you go to your room. Suzanne will go to hers. I will go
to mine. We will not have any more fighting here tonight. The jig is up.
The die is cast. I'm through. Suzanne comes to me, if she will."

Angela walked to her room through the studio, stricken by the turn
things had taken, horrified by the thoughts in her mind, unable to
convince Eugene, unable to depose Suzanne, her throat dry and hot, her
hands shaking, her heart beating fitfully; she felt as if her brain
would burst, her heart break actually, not emotionally. She thought
Eugene had gone crazy, and yet now, for the first time in her married
life, she realized what a terrible mistake she had made in always trying
to drive him. It hadn't worked tonight, her rage, her domineering,
critical attitude. It had failed her completely, and also this scheme,
this beautiful plan, this trump card on which she had placed so much
reliance for a happy life, this child which she had hoped to play so
effectively. He didn't believe her. He wouldn't even admit its
possibility. He didn't admire her for it. He despised her! He looked on
it as a trick. Oh, what an unfortunate thing it had been to mention it!
And yet Suzanne must understand, she must know, she would never
countenance anything like this. But what would he do? He was positively
livid with rage. What fine auspices these were under which to usher a
child into the world! She stared feverishly before her, and finally
began to cry hopelessly.

Eugene stood in the hall beside Suzanne after she had gone. His face was
drawn, his eyes hunted, his hair tousled. He looked grim and determined
in his way, stronger than he had ever looked before.

"Suzanne," he said, taking the latter by her two arms and staring into
her eyes, "she has told me a lie, a lie, a cold, mean, cruel lie. She'll
tell it you shortly. She says she is with child by me. It isn't so. She
couldn'