She smiled through her tears, a sardonic smile.  He was watching her, and she turned again, and their eyes met; again he saw the blood mount from her throat to her cheeks.  At the same time came the old stirring of the wild beasts within him.  He knew that the less time he spent in sympathizing with Mrs. Winnie, the better for both of them.

He had started to rise, and words of farewell were on his lips; when suddenly there came a knock upon the door.

Mrs. Winnie sprang to her feet.  “Who is that?” she cried.

And the door opened, and Mr. Duval entered.

“Good evening,” he said pleasantly, and came toward her.

Mrs. Winnie flushed angrily, and stared at him.  “Why do you come here unannounced?” she cried.

“I apologize,” he said—­“but I found this in my mail—­”

And Montague, in the act of rising to greet him, saw that he had the offensive clipping in his hand.  Then he saw Duval give a start, and realized that the man had not been aware of his presence in the room.

Duval gazed from Montague to his wife, and noticed for the first time her tears, and her agitation.  “I beg pardon,” he said.  “I am evidently trespassing.”

“You most certainly are,” responded Mrs. Winnie.

He made a move to withdraw; but before he could take a step, she had brushed past him and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

And Duval stared after her, and then he stared at Montague, and laughed.  “Well! well! well!” he said.

Then, checking his amusement, he added, “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening,” said Montague.

He was trembling slightly, and Duval noticed it; he smiled genially.  “This is the sort of material out of which scenes are made,” said he.  “But I beg you not to be embarrassed—­we won’t have any scenes.”

Montague could think of nothing to say to that.

“I owe Evelyn an apology,” the other continued.  “It was entirely an accident—­this clipping, you see.  I do not intrude, as a rule.  You may make yourself at home in future.”

Montague flushed scarlet at the words.

“Mr. Duval,” he said, “I have to assure you that you are mistaken—­”

The other stared at him.  “Oh, come, come!” he said, laughing.  “Let us talk as men of the world.”

“I say that you are mistaken,” said Montague again.

The other shrugged his shoulders.  “Very well,” he said genially.  “As you please.  I simply wish to make matters clear to you, that’s all.  I wish you joy with Evelyn.  I say nothing about her—­you love her.  Suffice it that I’ve had her, and I’m tired of her; the field is yours.  But keep her out of mischief, and don’t let her make a fool of herself in public, if you can help it.  And don’t let her spend too much money—­she costs me a million a year already.—­Good evening, Mr. Montague.”

And he went out.  Montague, who stood like a statue, could hear him chuckling all the way down the hall.