She had walked to the other end of the room, and stood under a Venetian mirror—­it shone like a monstrous jewel above her head—­looking at him, her hands clenched, her eyes flashing through the tears that had not yet fallen.

He had had no experience of women and their moods, and he was consequently amazed at her attitude.  He took a step toward her.

“No—­no,” she cried angrily.  “I will not have any more of you.  I tell you that I have had enough.  I find now that what I mistook for love was just the opposite.  I believe that I hate you.  No—­no, Bertie, not that, it cannot be that, only——­Oh, I know now that it is not hate for you that I feel—­it is hate for myself, hate for the creature who is hateful enough to stand between you and the happiness which you have earned by patience, by constancy, by self-control.  Yes, I hate the creature who is idiotic enough to put honor between us, to put religion between us, to put her soul’s salvation between us.”

“Ella, Ella, why will you not trust me?” he said, when she had flung herself into a chair.  He was standing over her with his hands clasped behind him.  He was beginning to understand something of her nature; of the nature of the woman to whom love has come as a thief in the night.  He was beginning to perceive that she had, in her ignorance, been ready to entertain love without knowing what was entailed by entertaining him.  “If you would only trust me, all would be well.”

She almost leaped from her chair.

“Would it?” she cried.  “Would all be well?  Would it be well with my soul?  Would it be well with both of us in the future?  Would it be well with my husband?”

He laughed.

“I know your husband,” he said.

“And I know him, too,” said she.  “He cares for me no more than I care for him, but he has never been otherwise than kind to me.  I think of him—­I think of him.  I know the name that men give to the man who tries to make his friend’s wife love him.  It is not my husband who has earned that name, Mr. Courtland.”

He looked into her face, but he spoke no word.  Even he—­the lover—­was beginning to see, as in a glass, darkly, something of the conflict that was going on in the heart of the woman before him.  She had uttered words against him, and they had stung him, and yet he had a feeling that, if he had put his arms about her again, she would have held him close to her as she had done before; she would have given him kiss for kiss as she had done before.  It is the decree of nature that the lover shall think of himself only; but had he not told Phyllis that his belief was that Nature and Satan were the same?  He was sometimes able to say, “Retro me, Sathana”—­not always.  He said it now, but not boldly, not loudly—­in a whisper.  The best way of putting Satan behind one is to run away from him.  Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.  Yes, but, on the whole, it is safer to show him a clean pair of heels than