Irene listened, stupefied. He seemed some unutterable stranger that had obtained access to her presence, she knew not how. He thrust his hands into his pockets and turned away. The gesture was familiar. Times out of number he had stood so, looming huge between herself and the light. It touched a tender chord, brought back the Gerard she had known and worshipped. Again she flew to him, caught him by the lapels of his coat and broke into a loud cry.
“But Gerard--my husband--am I a woman capable of such a thing?”
He unloosened her hands and drew apart from her.
“All women are the same--Madonas or Messalinas.”
“I tell you I hate him,” said Gerard, vindictively.
Then, suddenly, beneath his furious anger Irene saw the man as he was, and her idol lay shivered at her feet.
“Was that why you never told me of his having saved your life?”
Taken aback for the moment, he looked at her enquiringly.
“Because you hated him and were jealous of him all the time?”
“I told you my reasons. I haven’t come now to discuss them.”
He crossed the room and caught up his hat.
“I wish I had not come at all,” he said, with a drop in his tone to sullenness. “I should have sent my solicitor. Your brazening it out made me lose my temper.”
Irene interposed herself between him and the door.
“We can’t part like this,” she said in a queer voice. “Tell me what your wishes are and I’ll try to obey them.”
Gerard reflected for a moment, checking a spiteful outburst. He had said his say. Further display of anger was futile. Also he knew something of Irene, and was aware that plain words would fall coldest upon her intelligence.
“After what has passed,” he said, “I can’t live in this house while you are here.”
“Take your time. I don’t want to inconvenience you more than I can help.”
“You are very kind, Gerard,” said Irene, in bitter irony.
“I will have everything that belongs to you despatched wherever you think fit,” he continued, unheeding.
He shrugged his shoulders, looked at her askance for a second.
Her mind, dazed by exhaustion and the pain and the successive cataclysms of this disastrous interview, had not travelled a second beyond the lurid present. The bald word was a new shock, the final sledgehammer blow that sent love reeling. She grew very white.