“You are a strange woman,” he said.  “I find it hard sometimes to understand you.”

“Then you are a fool,” she declared in a fierce little whisper.  “You know what is underneath all my suffering, all my broken pride!  You know that I was fool enough to keep the flame flickering—­that I have cared always and for no one else!”

He stopped the carriage.

“You are the most original woman I ever met,” he said quietly.  “I neither wish to care nor be cared for by anyone.  Go home to your husband, and tell him to buy Treadwells up to six.”

That same afternoon Wingrave met Aynesworth and cut him dead.  Something in the younger man’s appearance, though, perplexed him.  Aynesworth certainly had not the air of a successful man.  He was pale, carelessly dressed, and apparently in ill health.  Wingrave, after an amount of hesitation, which was rare with him, turned his car towards Battersea, and found himself, a few minutes later, mounting the five flights of stone steps.  Juliet herself opened the door to him.  She gave a little gasp when she saw who it was, and did not immediately invite him to enter.

“I am sorry,” Wingrave said coldly, “to inflict this visit upon you.  If you are alone, and afraid to ask me in, we can talk here.”

Her cheeks became as flushed as a moment before they had been pale.  She looked at him reproachfully, and, standing on one side to let him pass, closed the door behind him.  Then she led the way into her sitting room.

“I am glad that you have come to see me,” she said.  “Won’t you sit down?”

He ignored her invitation, and stood looking around him.  There was a noticeable change in the little room.  There were no flowers, some of the ornaments and the silver trifles from her table were missing.  The place seemed to have been swept bare of everything, except the necessary furniture.  Then he looked at her.  She was perceptibly thinner, and there were black rings under her eyes.

“Where is Mrs. Tresfarwin?” he asked.

“In Cornwall,” she answered.

“Why?”

“I could not afford to keep her here any longer.”

“What are you doing for a living—­painting still?”

She shook her head a little piteously.

“They can’t sell any more of my pictures,” she said.  “I am trying to get a situation as governess or companion or—­anything.”

“When did you have anything to eat last?” he asked.

“Yesterday,” she answered, and he was just in time to catch her.  She had fainted.

He laid her upon the sofa, poured some water over her face, and fanned her with a newspaper.  His expression of cold indifference remained unmoved.  It was there in his face when she opened her eyes.

“Are you well enough to walk?” he asked.

“Quite, thank you,” she answered.  “I am so sorry!”

“Put on your hat,” he ordered.

She disappeared for a few minutes, and returned dressed for the street.  He drove her to a restaurant and ordered some dinner.  He made her drink some wine, and while they waited he buried himself in a newspaper.  They ate their meal almost in silence.  Afterwards, Wingrave asked her a question.