he dragged the words between his
teeth--'you masquerade to Madame de Pastourelles--and when her long
martyrdom as a wife is at last over--when in the tenderness
and compassion of her heart she begins to show you a friendship
which--which those who know her'--he laboured for breath and
words--'can only--presently--interpret in one way--you who owe her
everything--everything!--you _dare_ to play with her innocent, her
stainless life--you _dare_ to let her approach--to let those about
her approach--the thought of her marrying you--while all the time you
knew--what you know! If there ever was a piece of black cruelty in
this world, it is you, _you_ that have been guilty of it!'

The form of Arthur Welby, drawn to its utmost height, towered above
the man he accused. Fenwick sat, struck dumb. Welby's increasing
stoop, which of late had marred his natural dignity of gait; the
slight touches of affectation, of the _petit-maitre_, which were now
often perceptible; the occasional note of littleness, or malice, such
as his youth had never known:--all these defects, physical and moral,
had been burnt out of the man, as he spoke these words, by the flame
of his only, his inextinguishable passion. For his dear mistress--in
the purest, loftiest sense of that word--he stood champion, denouncing
with all his soul the liar who had deceived and endangered her; a
stern, unconscious majesty expressed itself in his bearing, his voice;
and the man before him--artist and poet like himself--was sensible of
it in the highest, the most torturing degree.

Fenwick turned away. He stooped mechanically to the fire, put it
together, lifted a log lying in front of it, laid it carefully on the
others. Then he looked at Welby, who on his side had walked to the
window and opened it, as though the room suffocated him.

'Everything that you say is just'--said Fenwick, slowly--'I have no
answer to make--except that--No!--I have no answer to make.'

He paced once or twice up and down the length of the room, slowly,
thoughtfully; then he resumed:

'I shall write to Madame de Pastourelles to-night, and by the first
train to-morrow, as soon as these things'--he looked round him--'can
be gathered together, I shall be gone!'

Welby moved sharply, showing a face still drawn and furrowed with
emotion--'No! she will want to see you.'

Fenwick's composure broke down. 'I had better not see her'--he
said--'I had better not see her!'

'You will bear that for he