for not making a scene—­she became conscious presently that she was beginning to cherish an emotion not unlike resentment on George’s account.  That the discovery of George’s faithlessness should be received so coolly by George’s wife appeared almost an affront to him.  Mrs. Fowler liked Gabriella, she was fond of her—­and nobody could look in the girl’s face and not see that she was a fine woman—­but there were times, and this was one of them, when she thought her a little hard.  Had Gabriella wept, had she raged, had she threatened Florrie’s life or happiness, it might have been painful, but at least it would have been human; and above all things Mrs. Fowler felt that she liked women to be human.

“Nothing that anybody says or does can excuse George,” said Patty sternly.  “He has behaved abominably, and if I were Gabriella, I’d simply wash my hands of him.  I don’t care if he is my brother, that doesn’t make me blind, does it?  If he were my husband,” she concluded passionately, “I’d feel just the same way about it.”

“Oh, you mustn’t!  Oh, Patty, hush, it’s wicked!  It’s sinful!” moaned Mrs. Fowler, shutting her eyes, as if the sight of Patty’s indignant loveliness gave her a headache.  “Don’t try to harden Gabriella’s heart against him.  Don’t try to make her think she’s really stopped loving him.”

Gabriella’s answer to this outburst was a look which, as poor Mrs. Fowler said afterwards, “cut her to the heart.”  Backing weakly to a chair, the valiant little lady sat down suddenly, because she felt that her legs were giving way beneath the weight of her body.  And, though she was unaware of its significance, her action was deeply symbolical of the failure of the old order to withstand the devastating advance of the new spirit.  She felt vaguely that she wished women and things were both what they used to be; but this, since she had little imagination, was as far as she penetrated into the psychology of Gabriella’s behaviour.

“But, you see, you’re making the mistake of thinking that I love George,” said Gabriella, with a reasonableness which made Mrs. Fowler feel that she wanted to scream, “and I don’t love him—­I don’t love him at all.  I haven’t loved him for a long time—­not since the night I saw him drunk.  How could I love a man I’ve seen drunk—­disgustingly drunk—­a man I couldn’t respect?  I’m not made that way, and I can’t help it.  Some women may be like that, but I’m not.  I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, love a man who has treated me as George has done.  I don’t see how any woman could—­any woman with a particle of pride and self-respect.  Of course I had to live with him after I married him,” she finished abruptly.  “Marriage isn’t made for love.  I used to think it was—­but it isn’t—­”

“But, Gabriella, you don’t mean—­you can’t—­” Mrs. Fowler was really pitiable, for, after all, George was her son, and the ties of blood would not break so easily as the ties of marriage.  In the depths of her humiliation she had almost convinced herself that she had never respected George, that she had never believed in him, forgetting the pride and adoration of her young motherhood.  Whatever George did she could not change his relation to her—­she could not shatter the one indissoluble bond that holds mankind together.