Then, seizing a map of Morocco in one hand and a schedule of sailings in the other, he sat down to plan, chanting over and over, “Paris, Vienna, Morocco, India, Paris, Vienna—­”

At this moment, unnoticed by him, the doors moved noiselessly and Mrs. Lightbody entered; a woman full of appealing movements in her lithe body, and of quick, decisive perceptions in the straight, gray glance of her eyes.  She held with one hand a cloak fastened loosely about her throat.  On her head was the hat with the three white feathers.

A minute passed while she stood, rapidly seizing every indication that might later assist her.  Then she moved slightly and said in a voice of quiet sadness: 

“Jackie.”

“Great God!”

Lightbody, overturning chair and table, sprang up—­recoiling as one recoils before an avenging specter.  In his convulsive fingers were the time-tables, clinging like damp lily pads.

“Jackie, I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t abandon you.  I’ve come back.”  Gently, seeming to move rather than to walk, advancing with none of the uncertainty that was in her voice, she cried, with a little break:  “Forgive me!”

“No, no, never!”

He retreated behind a chair, fury in his voice, weak at the thought of the floating, entangling scarf, and the perfume he knew so well.  Then, recovering himself, he cried brutally: 

“Never!  You have given me my freedom.  I’ll keep it!  Thanks!”

With a gradual motion, she loosened her filmy cloak and let it slip from the suddenly revealed shoulders and slender body.

“No, no, I forbid you!” he cried.  Anger—­animal, instinctive anger—­began to possess him.  He became brutal as he felt himself growing weak.

“Either you go out or I do!”

“You will listen.”

“What?  To lies?”

“When you have heard me, you will understand, Jack.”

“There is nothing to be said.  I have not the slightest intention of taking back—­”

“Jack!”

Her voice rang out with sudden impressiveness:  “I swear to you I have not met him, I swear to you I came back of my own free will, because I could not meet him, because I found that it was you—­you only—­whom I wanted!”

“That is a lie!”

She recoiled before the wound in his glance.  She put her long white hand over her heart, throwing all of herself into the glance that sought to conquer him.

“I swear it,” she said simply.

“Another lie!”

“Jack!”

It was a physical rage that held him now, a rage divided against itself—­that longed to strike down, to crush, to stifle the thing it coveted.  He had almost a fear of himself.  He cried: 

“If you don’t go, I’ll—­I’ll—­”

Suddenly he found something more brutal than a blow, something that must drive her away, while yet he had the strength of his passion.  He crossed his arms, looking at her with a cold look.