“As to the last,” he said, “you know that it was your father’s doing.  I was nothing to you.  He ordered, and we obeyed in those days.  He ruled us like a tyrant.  One would not wish to speak evil of the dead, or else one would surely say that it was he who was responsible for the evil things which have come upon us.

“How do you know?” she demanded fiercely.  “Were you not my promised husband?—­and you stole away like a coward from the pestilence.”

He was aghast, silent from sheer confusion.  This was a point of view which had never once occurred to him.

“Am I not a woman?” she continued, with rising passion—­“as other women?  You were given to me, you were mine.  Why should you steal away like a thief with never a word, and ignore me wholly as a creature of no worth?  Come, answer me that.  Were you not my promised husband?”

“I never spoke a word of love to you,” he said “Your father forced it on us.”

She leaned over the table towards him.

“You fool!” she cried.  “Do you think life at Feldwick was any more bearable to me than to you and Cissy, because I wasn’t always mooning about on the hills or reading poetry?  You never took the trouble to find out.  You looked upon me as a drudge because I did the work which was my duty.  You were mine, and I wanted you.  When you stole away I hated you.  I have tried to hunt you down because I hated you.  You have escaped me now, but I shall hate you always.  Remember it, Douglas Guest.  Some day you may yet have cause to.”

She left him speechless, too amazed to think of making her any answer.  It was Joan who had said these things to him, Joan the silent, with her hard, handsome face and her Lather’s dogged silence.  Never again would he believe that he understood anything whatsoever about women.  He walked up and down for a while restlessly, then put on his hat and walked across to the club.

* * * * *

“Let me go, I tell you!  By Heaven, there’ll be mischief if you don’t!”

Half a dozen of them were holding Drexley—­a pitiable sight.  His coat was torn, his eyes seemed starting from his sockets, his breath reeked of brandy and his face was pale with passion.  Opposite him was Douglas, his cheek bleeding from the sudden blow which Drexley had struck him, gazing with blank surprise at his late assailant.  Some one had told him that Drexley was there, had been drinking brandy all day and was already verging on madness, and he had gone at once into the little bar, hoping to be able to quieten him.  But at his first words Drexley had sprung upon him like a wild animal—­nothing but his own great personal strength and the prompt intervention of all the men who were present had saved the attack from being a murderous one.  There had been no words—­no sort of explanation.  None came now—­Drexley was furious but silent.

“I think you had better go away, Jesson,” one of the members said.  “We will take him home.”