She was moved, swayed.  He needed her. ...  She had cheated Bonbright in the beginning.  She was not his wife. ...  He had none of her love, and she believed this man had it wholly. ...  She had wronged Bonbright all she could wrong him—­what would this matter?  It was not this that was wrong, but the other—­the marrying without love. ...  And she, too, was beaten.  She had played her game and lost, not going down to defeat fighting as Dulac had gone down, but futilely, helplessly.  She had given herself for the Cause—­to no profit. ...  And her heart yearned for peace, for release.

“I’m his wife,” she said, still struggling flutteringly.

“You’re my wife.”  He lifted his arms toward her, and she swayed, took a step toward him—­a step toward the precipice.  Suddenly she stopped, eyes startled, a deeper pallor blighting her face—­for she heard Bonbright’s step on the stairs. ...  She had forgotten the lateness of the hour.

“Oh’.” she said.

“What is it?”

“He is—­here.”

She was awakened by the shock of it, and saw, saw clearly.  She had stood upon the brink—­and he had come in time. ...  And then she was afraid.

Neither of them spoke.  Dulac got to his feet, his breath coming audibly, and so they waited.

Bonbright opened the door.  “Ruth,” he called, putting what pretense of gayety he could into his voice.  “You’ve got company.  The chronic visitor is here.”  He was playing his game bravely.

She did not answer.

“Ruth,” he called again, and then stood in the door.  She could not see him, but she felt his presence, felt his silence, felt the look of surprise changing to suspicion that she knew must be in his eyes.

For a moment he stood motionless, not comprehending.  Then the attitude of his wife and of Dulac spoke eloquently, and he whitened.

“I don’t understand,” he said.  The words were meaningless, pointless, perhaps, but they stabbed Ruth to the heart.  She turned to him, saw him step forward slowly, looking very tall, older than she had ever known him.  He had drawn within himself, and there manifested itself his inheritance from his ancestors.  He was like his father, but with an even more repressed dignity than was his father’s.

“You don’t understand,” snarled Dulac.  “Then I’ll tell you.  I’m glad you came. ...  I’m after your wife.  She’s going away with me.”

“No. ...  No...”  Ruth whispered.

“Be still. ...  She’s mine, Foote—­and always was.  You thought she was yours—­well, she’s one thing you can’t have.  I’m going to tell you why she married you. ...”

Ruth cried out in incoherent fright, protesting.