“If I do,” he asked, with a note of fierceness in his tone, “whose fault is it?  I was almost happy at Blakely.  I had almost learned to forget.  It was you who dragged me out again.  You were not satisfied with half of my income; you were always in debt, always wanting more money.  Then Borrowdean made use of you.  He wanted me back into politics, you wanted more money for your follies and extravagances.  Back I had to come into harness.  Blanche, I’ve tried to do my duty to you, but there is a limit.  I owed you a comfortable place in life, and I have tried to see that you have it.  I have never refused anything you have asked me, I have never mentioned the sacrifices which I have been forced to make.  But there is a limit.  I draw it here.  I will not suffer any interference between the Duchess of Lenchester and myself!”

Blanche Phillimore rose slowly to her feet.  He was used to her fits of passion, but there was no sign of anything of the sort in her face.  She was agitated, but in some new way.  Her words were an attack, but her manner suggested rather an appeal.  Her large, fine eyes, her one perfectly natural feature, were soft and luminous.  They seemed somehow to transfigure her face.  To him it seemed like the foolish, handsome woman of fifteen years ago who had suddenly come to life again.

“You owed me—­a comfortable place in life, Lawrence!  Thank—­you.  You have paid the debt very well.  You owed me—­a respectable guardianship; you paid that, too.  Thank you again.  Now tell me, do you owe me nothing else?”

“I owed you one debt,” he said, gravely, “which neither I nor any other man who incurs it can ever discharge.”

“I am glad you realize it,” she answered.  “But have you ever tried to discharge it?  You have given me a home and money to throw away on any folly which could kill thought.  What about the rest?”

“Blanche,” he said, gravely, “the rest was impossible!  You know that as well as I do.”

“It is fifteen years ago, Lawrence,” she said, “and all that time we have fenced with our words.  Now I am going to speak a little more plainly.  You robbed me of my husband.  The fault may not have been wholly yours, but the fact remains.  You struck him, and he died.  I was left alone!”

Mannering’s face was ashen.  The whole horrible scene was rising up again before him.  He covered his face with his hands.  It was more distinct than ever.  He saw the man’s flushed face, heard his stream of abuse, felt the sting of his blow, the hot anger with which he had struck back.  Then those few awful moments of suspense, the moment afterwards when they had looked at one another.  He shivered!  Why had she let loose this flood of memories?  She was speaking to him again.