She looked at him; and he went back to the window.

“My husband’s suit cannot be defended,” she said.  “Doubtless you will act according to the dictates of the London clubs.”

“I do not say so,” he said, turning angrily.  “I shall act according to the dictates of my own common sense.  And do not be too sure that the petition will be unopposed.  The law recognizes the plea of connivance.”

“But it would be a false plea,” said Marian, raising her voice.

“I shall not discuss that with you.  Whether your husband was blind, or merely kept his eyes shut will not be decided by us.  You have been warned.  We will drop the subject now, if you please.”

“Do you suppose,” said Marian, with a bright color in her cheeks, “that after what you have said, anything could induce me to marry you?”

He was startled, and remained for a moment motionless.  Then he said, in his usual cold tone, “As you please.  You may think better of it.  I will leave you for the present.  When we meet again, you will be calmer.”

“Yes,” she said.  “Good-bye.”

Without answering, he changed his coat for a silk jacket, transferred his cigar-case to a pocket in it, and went out.  When he had passed the threshold, he hesitated, and returned.

“Why do you say good-bye?” he said, after clearing his throat uneasily.

“I do not like to leave you without saying it.”

“I hope you have not misunderstood me, Marian.  I did not mean that we should part.”

“I know that.  Nevertheless, we shall part.  I will never sleep beneath the same roof with you again.”

“Come!” he said, shutting the door:  “this is nonsense.  You are out of temper.”

“So you have already told me,” she said, becoming pale.

“Well, but—­Marian:  perhaps I may have spoken rather harshly just now; but I did not mean you to take it so.  You must be reasonable.”

“Pray let us have no more words about it.  I need no apologies, and desire no advances.  Good-bye is enough.”

“But, Marian,” said he, coming nearer, “you must not fancy that I have ceased to love you.”

“Above all,” said Marian, “let us have no more of that.  You say you hate this place and the life we lead here.  I am heartily sick of it, and have been so for a long time.”

“Let us go elsewhere.”

“Yes, but not together.  One word,” she added resolutely, seeing his expression become fierce.  “I will not endure any violence, even of language, from you.  I know of old what you are when you lose your temper; and if you insult me I will summon aid, and proclaim who I am.”

“Do you think I am going to strike you?”

“No, because you dare not.  But I will not listen to oaths or abuse.”

“What have you to complain of?  What is your grievance?”

“I make no complaint.  I exercise the liberty I bought so dearly to go where I please and do what I please.”