Stanistreet looked straight in front of him, terribly detached and stern.

“She was not the wrong sort,” he said slowly; “but she may have been the wrong woman for you.”

“Men like you and me, Stanistreet, contrive to get hold of the wrong woman; I don’t know why.”

“You must know that your marriage did nothing for you that was not very well done before.”

“Yes.  It seems to me that there was a time when I had an immortal soul.  That was before the Framley episode.  You remember?  An edifying experience.”

Stanistreet assented.  He knew the horrible story, of a mad boy and a bad woman.  Perhaps it accounted for the ugliest facts in Tyson’s character.  He was warped from his youth, the bitter, premature manhood, so soon corrupt.

“That woman was possessed of seven distinct devils, and amongst them they didn’t leave much of my immortal soul.  And you hear men talk of their ‘first love.’  Good God!”

Stanistreet shrugged his shoulders.  He had not met these men.  But there could be no doubt that if any of Tyson’s loves could be called his first, he would have talked freely enough about it.  No subject was too sacred or too vile for his unbridled tongue.  He continued to talk.

“After all, at my worst, I never did as much harm to any woman as that Framley fiend did to me.  I suppose I had my revenge; but that was Nature’s justice, not mine.  Right or wrong, I obeyed the law of the cosmos.  And for the life of me I don’t see why I should bother about it.”

If it had not been for Mrs. Nevill Tyson, Stanistreet might have been faintly amused at the idea of this little cockney cosmopolitan persuading himself that his contemptible vices were part of the pageant of the world.  As it was he was disgusted.  He, too, was a sinner in all conscience; but his sins and his repentance had been alike simple and sincere.  He had none of the pendantry of vice.

“If you ask me,” he said, “what did for you was that low trick of the old man Tyson when he left you his respectability.  A property you really could not be expected to manage. That was your ruin, if you like.”

Tyson looked up.  His drowning conscience snatched at straws.  “It was.  I’ve thought as much myself.  But that doesn’t square my account.  I lied when I said my marriage was a mistake.  It was not a mistake.  It was a crime committed against the dearest, sweetest woman that ever lived.”

“You mean—?” It was hard to tell what Tyson meant when he went off into reminiscences.  And for the moment Stanistreet’s vision was obscured by a painful memory.  Three years ago a woman had come to his rooms and asked for Tyson.  She sat in that chair opposite—­where Tyson was sitting now.  She said unspeakable things that were by no means pleasant for Stanistreet to hear.  It had required all his tact to break the news of Tyson’s marriage and take her home in a cab.  He could see her now, in her pitiful finery, sitting back, trying to hide her white face with gloves that were anything but white.