Mrs. Majendie’s chin rose, as if she were lifting her face above the reach of the hand that had tried to strike it.  Her voice throbbed on one deep monotonous note.

“I do not believe a word of what you say.  And I cannot think what your motive is in saying it.”

“Don’t worry about my motive.  It ought to be pretty clear.  Let me tell you—­you can bring your husband back to-morrow, and you can keep him to the end of time, if you choose, Mrs. Majendie.  Or you can lose him altogether.  And you will, if you go on as you’re doing.  If I were you, I should make up my mind whether it’s good enough.  I shouldn’t think it was, myself.”

Mrs. Majendie was silent.  She tried to think of some word that would end the intolerable interview.  Her lips parted to speak, but her thoughts died in her brain unborn.

She felt her face turning white under the woman’s face; it hypnotised her; it held her dumb.

“Don’t you worry,” said Lady Cayley soothingly.  “You can get your husband back from that woman to-morrow, if you choose.”  She smiled.  “Do you see my motive now?”

Lady Cayley had not seen it; but she had seen herself for one beautiful moment as the benignant and inspired conciliator.  She desired Mrs. Majendie to see her so.  She had gratified her more generous instincts in giving the unfortunate lady “the straight tip.”  She knew, perfectly well, that Mrs. Majendie wouldn’t take it.  She knew, all the time, that whatever else her revelation did, it would not move Mrs. Majendie to charm her husband back.  She could not say precisely what it would do.  Used to live solely in the voluptuous moment, she had no sense of drama beyond the scene she played in.

“Your motive,” said Mrs. Majendie, “is of no importance.  No motive could excuse you.”

“You think not.”  She rose and looked down on the motionless woman.  “I’ve told you the truth, Mrs. Majendie, because, sooner or later, you’d have had to know it; and other people would have told you worse things that aren’t true.  You can take it from me that there’s nothing more to tell.  I’ve told you the worst.”

“You’ve told me, and I do not believe it.”

“You’d better believe it.  But, if you really don’t, you can ask your husband.  Ask him where he goes to every week in that yacht of his.  Ask him what’s become of Maggie Forrest, the pretty work-girl who made the embroidered frock for Mrs. Ransome’s little girl.  Tell him you want one like it for your little girl; and see what he looks like.”

Anne rose too.  Her faint white face frightened Lady Cayley.  She had wondered how Mrs. Majendie would look if she told her the truth about her husband.  Now she knew.

“My dear lady,” said she, “what on earth did you expect?”

Anne went blindly towards the chimney-piece where the bell was.  Lady Cayley also turned.  She meant to go, but not just yet.

“One moment, Mrs. Majendie, please, before you turn me out.  I wouldn’t break my heart about it, if I were you.  He might have done worse things.”