“Me?  Oh I remained to care for you—­to keep you from being lonely.”

“You lie.  You are expecting some one.”

She laughed.

“Who is it this time?” he persisted.

“Your insinuations are so unwarranted,” she murmured.

“Whom are you expecting?”

“Dear me! how persistently you look for evil,” she mocked.  “You know perfectly well that, thanks to my tact, I am considered quite the model wife.  You really should cultivate a more trusting disposition.”

Another fit of coughing seized him, and while he suffered she again watched him with that curious air of interest.  When he could command his voice, he gasped in a choking whisper, “You fiend!  I know, and you know that I know.  Am I so innocent that Jack Hanover, and Charlie Rodgers, and Black Whitman, and as many more of their kind, can make love to you under my very nose without my knowing it?  You take damned good care—­posing as a prude with your fad about immodest dress—­that the world sees nothing; but you have never troubled to hide it from me.”

Deliberately, she arose and stood before him.  “And why should I trouble to hide anything from you?” she demanded.  “Look at me”—­she posed as if to exhibit for his critical inspection the charm of her physical beauty—­“Look at me; am I to waste all this upon you?  You tell me that you have had your money’s worth—­surely, the purchase price is mine to spend as I will.  Even suppose that I were as evil as your foul mind sees me, what right have you to object?  Are you so chaste that you dare cast a stone at me?  Am I to have no pleasure in this hell you have made for me but the horrible pleasure of watching you in the hell you have made for yourself?  Be satisfied that the world does not see your shame—­though it’s from no consideration of you, but wholly for myself, that I am careful.  As for my modesty—­you know it is not a fad but a necessity.”

“That is just it”—­he retorted—­“it is the way you make a fad of a necessity!  Forced to hide your shoulders, you make a virtue of concealment.  You make capital of the very thing of which you are ashamed.”

“And is not that exactly what we all do?” she asked with brutal cynicism.  “Do you not fear the eyes of the world as much as I?  Be satisfied that I play the game of respectability with you—­that I give the world no cause for talk.  You may as well be,” she finished with devilish frankness, “for you are past helping yourself in the matter.”

As she finished, a servant appeared to announce Mr. Conrad Lagrange; and the tall, uncouth figure of the novelist stood framed in the doorway; his sharp eyes regarding them with that peculiar, quizzing, baffling look.

Edward Taine laughed with that horrid chuckle.  “Howdy-do, Lagrange—­glad to see you.”

Mrs. Taine went forward to greet the caller; saying as she gave him her hand, “You arrived just in time, Mr. Lagrange; Edward and I were discussing your latest book.  We think it a masterpiece of realistic fiction.  I’m sure it will add immensely to your fame.  I hear it talked of everywhere as the most popular novel of the year.  You wonderful man!  How do you do it?”