"No. In that case I would not have thought of you. I would have thought
of her."
"In other words, you would have behaved like a scoundrel if you'd got
the chance." The twinkle in Tyson's eyes intimated that he was enjoying
himself immensely. He had never had the whip-hand of Stanistreet before.
"I would have behaved like a damned scoundrel, if you like. But I
wouldn't have left her. Not even to marry and live morally ever after.
I can be faithful--to another man's wife."
The twinkle went out like a spark, and Tyson looked at his hearth. It was
dangerous to irritate Stanistreet, for there was no end to the things he
knew. So he only said, "Do you mind not shouting quite so loud. She's in
there--she may hear you."
She had heard him; she was calling to Nevill. He went to her, leaving the
door of communication unlatched.
"Is that Louis?" she asked. Tyson muttered something which Stanistreet
could not hear, and Molly answered with an intense pleading note that
carried far. "But I must see him."
He started forward at the sound of her voice. I believe up to the very
last he clung to the doubt that was his hope. But Tyson had heard the
movement and he shut the door.
The pleading and muttering went on again on the other side. Heaven only
knew what incriminating things the little fool was saying in there! As
Stanistreet waited, walking up and down the empty room, he noticed for
the first time that it was empty. Only the other day it had been
crammed with things that were symbols or monuments of the foolishness
of Mrs. Nevill Tyson. Now ceiling and walls were foul with smoke, the gay
white paint was branded and blistered, and the floor he walked on was
cleared as if for a dance of devils. But it was nothing to Stanistreet.
It would have been nothing to him if he had found Mrs. Nevill Tyson's
drawing-room utterly consumed. There was no reality for him but his own
lust, and anger, and bitterness, and his idea of Mrs. Nevill Tyson.
Presently Tyson came back.
"You can go in," he said, "but keep quiet, for God's sake!"
Stanistreet went in.
Tyson looked back; he saw him stop half-way from the threshold.
It was only for a second, but to Stanistreet it seemed eternity. From all
eternity Mrs. Nevill Tyson had been lying there on that couch, against
those scarlet cushions, with the blinds up and the sun shining full on
her small, scarred face, and on her shrunken, tortured throat.
She held out her hand and said, "I thought it was you. I wanted to see
you. Can you find a chair?"
He murmured something absolutely trivial and sat down by her couch,
playing with the fringe of the shawl that covered her.