ut heeding her remark, he went on,--"You know the picture is
worthless. He knows it,--Conrad Lagrange knows it,--Jim Rutlidge knows
it,--the whole damned clique and gang of you know it, He's like all his
kind,--a pretender,--a poser,--playing into the hands--of such women as
you; to win social position--and wealth. And we and our kind--we pretend
to believe--in such damned parasites,--and exalt them and what we--call
their art,--and keep them in luxury, and buy their pictures;--because they
prostitute--their talents to gratify our vanity. We know it's all a damned
sham--and a pretense that if they were real artists,--with an honest
workman's respect for their work,--they wouldn't--recognize us."

"Don't forget to send him a check,"--she murmured--"you can't afford to
neglect it, you know--think how people would talk."

"Don't worry," he replied. "There'll be no talk. I'll send the genius his
check--for making love--to my wife in the sacred name of art,--and I'll
lie--about his picture with--the rest of you. But there will be--no more
of your intimacy with him. You're my wife,--in spite of hell,--and from
now on--I'll see--that you are true--to me. Your sickening pose--of
modesty in dress shall be something--more than a pose. For the little time
I have left,--I'll have--you to--myself or I'll kill you."

His reference to her refusal to uncover her shoulders in public broke the
woman's calm and aroused her to a cold fury. Springing to her feet, she
stood over him as he sat huddled in his chair, exhausted by his effort.

"What is your silly, idle threat beside the fact," she said with stinging
scorn. "To have killed me, instead of making me your wife, would have been
a kindness greater than you are capable of. You know how unspeakably vile
you were when you bought me. You know how every hour of my life with you
has been a torment to me. You should be grateful that I have helped you to
live your lie--that I have played the game of respectability with
you--that I am willing to play it a little while longer, until you lay
down your hand for good, and release us both.

"Suppose I _were_ what you think me? What right have _you_ to object to my
pleasures? Have you--in all your life of idle, vicious, luxury--have you
ever feared to do evil if it appealed to your bestial nature? You know you
have not. You have feared only the appearance of evil. To be as evil as
you like so long as you can avoid the appearance of evil; that's th