“Afraid?” said his wife with her serene ironical smile.  “My dear Bernard, you tempt me to wish you were.”

“Oh, not before tonight.  Jolly time you’ll have tonight, you and Lawrence . . .  I can only trust you’ll respect the Stafford child’s innocence.”

“Bernard!  Bernard!”

“Don’t you Bernard me.  You can’t take me in.  Stop.  Where are you off to now?”

“To tell Lawrence not to get the tickets.  I shan’t go with him.”

“You will go with him,” said Bernard Clowes, his fingers tightening on her wrist.  “Stop here:  come closer.”  He locked his arm round her waist.  “Is he your lover yet, Lally?  Tell me:  I swear I won’t kill you if you do.  Are you on the borderland of virtue still, or over it?”

“Let me go,” said Laura, panting for breath under his clenched grip.  “I will not answer such questions.  You know you don’t mean one word of them.  Take care, you’re tearing my blouse.  Oh, that frightful war! what has it done to you, to turn you from the man I married into what you are?”

“What am I?”

“A madman, or not far off it.  End this horrible life:  send him away.  It’s killing me, and as for you, if you were sane enough to understand what you’re doing, you would blow your brains out.”

“Likely enough,” said Bernard Clowes.

He let her go.  “Come back to me now, Laura.”  His wife leant over him, unfaltering, though she had known for some time that she was dealing with the abnormal.  “Kiss me.”  Laura touched his lips.  “That’s better, old girl.  I am a cross-grained devil and I make your life a hell to you, don’t I?  But don’t—­don’t leave me.  Don’t chuck me over.  Let me have your love to cling to.  I don’t believe in God, I don’t believe in any other man, often enough I don’t believe in myself, I feel, I feel unreal . . . .”  He stopped, shut his eyes, moved his head on the pillow, and felt about over his rug with the blind groping hands of a delirious, almost of a dying man.  Laura gathered them up and held them to her heart.  “That’s better,” said Bernard, his voice gaining strength as he opened his eyes on the beautiful still face bent over him.  “Just now and again, in my lucid moments, I do—­I do believe in you, old girl.  You are just the one thing I have left.  You won’t forsake me, will you, ever? not whatever I do to you.”

“Never, my darling.”

“Seems a bit one-sided, that bargain,” said Bernard.

He lay perfectly still for a little while, his great hands softly pressed against his wife’s firm breast.

“And now get your hat and trot up to the village with Lawrence.  Yes, I should like you to go tonight.  It’ll do you good.  Give you a breath of fresh air after your extra dose of sulphur.  Yes, you shall take Isabel.  Then you’ll be safe:  I can’t insult you if you and Lawrence weren’t alone.  Now run along, I’ve had enough emotions.  But don’t forget.  Laura,” he spoke thickly and with effort, turning his head away as he pushed her from him “yes, get out, I’ve had enough of you for the present—­but don’t forget all the same that you’re the one thing on earth that ever is real to me.”