old and indifferent.

"No, Max," she answered wearily. "I don't think I can. You ask me to
believe that there is need for you to see so much of Adrienne. At
first you said it was because of the play. Now you say it has to do
with this--this thing I may not know. . . . I'm afraid I can't believe
it. I think a man's wife should come first--first of anything. I've
tried--oh, I've tried not to mind when you left me so often to go to
Adrienne. I used to tell myself that it was only on account of the
play. I tried to believe it, because--because I loved you so.
But"--with a bitter little smile--"I don't think I ever _really_
believed it--I only cheated myself. . . . There's something else,
too--the shadow. Baroni knows what it is--and Olga Lermontof. Only
I--your wife--I know nothing."

She paused, as though expecting some reply, but Max remained silent,
his arms folded across his chest, his head a little bent.

"I was only a child when you married me, Max," she went on presently.
"I didn't realise what it meant for a husband to have some secret
business which he cannot tell his wife. But I know now what it means.
It's merely an excuse to be always with another woman--"

In a stride Max was beside her, his eyes blazing, his hands gripping
her shoulders with a clasp that hurt her.

"How dare you?" he exclaimed. "Unsay that--take it back? Do you hear?"

She shrank a little, twisting in his grasp, but he held her
remorselessly.

"No, I won't take it back. . . . Ah! Let me go, Max, you're hurting
me!"

He released her instantly, and, as his hands fell away from her
shoulders, the white flesh reddened into bars where his fingers had
gripped her. His eyes rested for a moment on the angry-looking marks,
and then, with an inarticulate cry, he caught her to him, pressing his
lips against the bruised flesh, against her eyes, her mouth, crushing
her in his arms.

She lay there passively; but her body stiffened a little, and her lips
remained quite still and unresponsive beneath his.

"Diana! . . . Beloved! . . ."

She thrust her hands against his chest.

"Let me go," she whispered breathlessly, "Let me go. I can't bear you
to touch me."

With a quick, determined movement she freed herself, and stood a little
away from him, panting.

"Don't ever . . . do that . . . again. I--I can't bear you to touch me
. . . not now."

She made a wavering step towards the door. He held it open for her,
and in s