The very novelty of this interrogation caused Emerson to start and change color.

“Ha!” The blood leaped to the forehead of Irene, and her eyes, dilating suddenly, almost glared upon the face of her husband.

“Well, sir?” Irene drew her slender form to its utmost height.  There was an impatient, demanding tone in her voice.  “Speak!” she added, without change of manner.  “What touching your associations when not in my company?  As a wife, I have some interest in this matter.  Away from home often until the brief hours, have I no right to put the question—­where and with whom?  It would seem so if we are equal.  But if I am the slave and dependant—­the creature of your will and pleasure—­why, that alters the case!”

“Have you done?”

Emerson was recovering from his surprise, but not gaining clear sight or prudent self-possession.

“You have not answered,” said Irene, looking coldly, but with glittering eyes, into his face.  “Come!  If there is to be a mutual relation of acts and associations outside of this our home, let us begin.  Sit down, Hartley, and compose yourself.  You are the man, and claim precedence.  I yield the prerogative.  So let me have your confession.  After you have ended I will give as faithful a narrative as if on my death-bed.  What more can you ask?  There now, lead the way!”

This coolness, which but thinly veiled a contemptuous air, irritated Hartley almost beyond the bounds of decent self-control.

“Bravely carried off!  Well acted!” he retorted with a sneer.

“You do not accept the proposal,” said Irene, growing a little sterner of aspect.  “Very well.  I scarcely hoped that you would meet me on this even ground.  Why should I have hoped it?  Were the antecedents encouraging?  No!  But I am sorry.  Ah, well!  Husbands are free to go and come at their own sweet will—­to associate with anybody and everybody.  But wives—­oh dear!”

She tossed her head in a wild, scornful way, as if on the verge of being swept from her feet by some whirlwind of passion.

“And so,” said her husband, after a long silence, “you do not choose to answer my questions as to Major Willard?”

That was unwisely pressed.  In her heart of hearts Irene loathed this man.  His name was an offence to her.  Never, since the night he had forced himself into her carriage, had she even looked into his face.  If he appeared in the room where she happened to be, she did not permit her eyes to rest upon his detested countenance.  If he drew near to her, she did not seem to notice his presence.  If he spoke to her, as he had ventured several times to do, she paid no regard to him whatever.  So far as any response or manifestation of feeling on her part was concerned, it was as if his voice had not reached her ears.  The very thought of this man was a foul thing in her mind.  No wonder that the repeated reference by her husband was felt as a stinging insult.