He gave a little gasp, and
the tears began to trickle down his round cheeks. I did not
know what to say. My first thought was that she had come to
the end of her forbearance with his infatuation for
Strickland, and, goaded by the latter's cynical behaviour, had
insisted that he should be turned out. I knew her capable of
temper, for all the calmness of her manner; and if Stroeve
still refused, she might easily have flung out of the studio
with vows never to return. But the little man was so
distressed that I could not smile.

"My dear fellow, don't be unhappy. She'll come back.
You mustn't take very seriously what women say when they're
in a passion."

"You don't understand. She's in love with Strickland."

"What!" I was startled at this, but the idea had no sooner
taken possession of me than I saw it was absurd. "How can you
be so silly? You don't mean to say you're jealous of Strickland?"
I almost laughed. "You know very well that she
can't bear the sight of him."

"You don't understand," he moaned.

"You're an hysterical ass," I said a little impatiently.
"Let me give you a whisky-and-soda, and you'll feel better."

I supposed that for some reason or other -- and Heaven knows
what ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves -- Dirk had
got it into his head that his wife cared for Strickland, and
with his genius for blundering he might quite well have
offended her so that, to anger him, perhaps, she had taken
pains to foster his suspicion.

"Look here," I said, "let's go back to your studio. If you've
made a fool of yourself you must eat humble pie. Your wife
doesn't strike me as the sort of woman to bear malice."

"How can I go back to the studio?" he said wearily.
"They're there. I've left it to them."

"Then it's not your wife who's left you; it's you who've left
your wife."

"For God's sake don't talk to me like that."

Still I could not take him seriously. I did not for a moment
believe what he had told me. But he was in very real distress.

"Well, you've come here to talk to me about it. You'd better
tell me the whole story."

"This afternoon I couldn't stand it any more. I went to
Strickland and told him I thought he was quite well enough to
go back to his own place. I wanted the studio myself."

"No one but Strickland would have needed telling," I said.
"What did he say?"

"He laughed a little; you know how he laughs, not as though he
were amused, but as though you we