sed her of faithlessness to the memory of their boy. The fear
of having her husband leave her had now been swept away by the wave of
indignation which possessed her.

He could not have started back in more surprise and dismay had she
struck him, than when he heard her call him a coward and saw her
intense anger.

With a great effort she mastered the wild rush of words that sprang to
her lips, and bowing to him derisively said, as she looked into his
face: "Truly a most gallant husband and a gentleman! And so, forsooth,
you would desert your wife because she has forgotten the memory of her
dead boy--whom she never truly loved--and because she thirsts after
pleasure and excitement! What wondrous discernment! What a wise judge
of human nature!" Her ironical laugh was now true in intonation.

"Utterly heartless," he whispered, almost wonderingly as he sank down
on his chair.

She caught the words and said easily: "Yes, thanks to my husband,
utterly heartless." Then calmly drawing a chair near to his, she said
in an amused tone: "And let me tell you how this interesting
metaphysical transformation was brought about."

His anger had died away and he looked at her pityingly.

"I shall have to go back to two years ago," she continued, "for up to
that time you never doubted the existence of my heart--in fact, you
will remember you more than once told me that I was too
tender-hearted, and that you hoped deep sorrow would never come to me,
because I had the capacity to suffer more than most women. The great
change came with my boy's death."

For a brief space the mocking light died out of her face, while her
voice grew deeply earnest. A rush of memories made her emotion so keen
that she could not keep seated, and walking to and fro she talked
rapidly, at times almost wildly.

"Your discernment for once was right; I had the capacity for
suffering more than most women, and infinitely more than my husband,
with all his worship of our boy. After his death my heart craved love
and sympathy as it had never done before, and to whom but you was I to
turn for it? And was it given? Let your conscience answer. With his
death you shut me out of your heart, as I have said, when I most
needed your sympathy. How many times before this passion for
excitement, which you speak of, took possession of me, did I come to
you in your study, in which you isolated yourself so, and tried, in
numberless little ways, to show you how sorely I needed