'Delicia,' he began, making a poor attempt at smiling. 'Delicia, I am awfully sorry--'
Her eyes, full of a burning indignation, flashed upon him like lightning and struck him, despite himself, into silence.
'Spare yourself and me any further lies!' she said, in a low voice that vibrated with intense passion. 'There is no longer any need of them. You have shown me yourself as you are, in your true colours--the mask has fallen, and you need not stoop to pick it up and put it on again. It is mere waste of time!'
He stared at her, foolishly pulling at his moustache and still trying to smile.
'You called me "unsexed" to-night,' she went on, never removing her steadfast gaze from his face. 'Do you know what the word means? If not, I will tell you. It is to be like the women you admire!--to be like "La Marina," who strips her body to the gaze of the public without either shame or regret; it is to be like Lady Brancewith, who flings her husband's name and honour to the winds for any fool to mock at, and who in her high position is worse, yes, worse than "La Marina," who at any rate is honest in so far that she admits her position and makes no pretence of being what she is not! But I,--what have _I_ done that you should call me "unsexed?"'
'I didn't say _you_ were "unsexed," he stammered awkwardly. 'I said clever women were, as a rule, unsexed.'
'Pardon me,' she interrupted him coldly. 'You said "women who write books, like my wife." Those were your exact words. And, I repeat, what have I done to deserve them? Have I ever dishonoured your name? Have you not been the one thought, the one pride, the one love of my life? Has not every beat of my heart, together with every stroke of my pen, been for you and you only? While all the time to me you have played traitor--your very looks have been lies, you have deceived and destroyed all my most sacred beliefs and hopes; you have murdered me as thoroughly as if you had thrust a knife through my heart and hurled me down dead at your feet!'
Her voice vibrated with passion--strong, deeply-felt passion, unshaken by the weakness of sobs or tears.
'Look here, Delicia,' he said, 'don't let us have a scene! I have been a fool, I daresay--I am quite willing to admit it--but can't you forget and forgive?' And undeterred by the chill aversion in her face, he held out his arms. 'Come, I am sure your own heart cannot tell you to be unkind to me! You do love me--'