‘That is true,’ said Fenwick, nodding.  ’The second false step was the consequence of the first.’

’The consequence!  You had but to say a word—­one honest word!  Then, when your conduct, I suppose—­I don’t dare to judge you—­had driven your wife away—­for twelve years’—­he dragged the words between his teeth—­’you masquerade to Madame de Pastourelles—­and when her long martyrdom as a wife is at last over—­when in the tenderness and compassion of her heart she begins to show you a friendship which—­which those who know her’—­he laboured for breath and words—­’can only—­presently—­interpret in one way—­you who owe her everything—­everything!—­you dare to play with her innocent, her stainless life—­you dare to let her approach—­to let those about her approach—­the thought of her marrying you—­while all the time you knew—­what you know!  If there ever was a piece of black cruelty in this world, it is you, you that have been guilty of it!’

The form of Arthur Welby, drawn to its utmost height, towered above the man he accused.  Fenwick sat, struck dumb.  Welby’s increasing stoop, which of late had marred his natural dignity of gait; the slight touches of affectation, of the petit-maitre, which were now often perceptible; the occasional note of littleness, or malice, such as his youth had never known:—­all these defects, physical and moral, had been burnt out of the man, as he spoke these words, by the flame of his only, his inextinguishable passion.  For his dear mistress—­in the purest, loftiest sense of that word—­he stood champion, denouncing with all his soul the liar who had deceived and endangered her; a stern, unconscious majesty expressed itself in his bearing, his voice; and the man before him—­artist and poet like himself—­was sensible of it in the highest, the most torturing degree.

Fenwick turned away.  He stooped mechanically to the fire, put it together, lifted a log lying in front of it, laid it carefully on the others.  Then he looked at Welby, who on his side had walked to the window and opened it, as though the room suffocated him.

’Everything that you say is just’—­said Fenwick, slowly—­’I have no answer to make—­except that—­No!—­I have no answer to make.’

He paced once or twice up and down the length of the room, slowly, thoughtfully; then he resumed: 

’I shall write to Madame de Pastourelles to-night, and by the first train to-morrow, as soon as these things’—­he looked round him—­’can be gathered together, I shall be gone!’

Welby moved sharply, showing a face still drawn and furrowed with emotion—­’No! she will want to see you.’

Fenwick’s composure broke down.  ’I had better not see her’—­he said—­’I had better not see her!’

‘You will bear that for her,’ said Welby, quietly.  ’The more completely you can enlighten her, the better for us all.’

Fenwick’s lips moved, but without speaking.  Welby’s ignorance of the whole truth oppressed him; yet he could make no effort to remove it.