said, as a man might renounce an inheritance:

"You're right, Jim--but it's hard."

"Good spirit--fine, fine, very fine!" commented De Gollyer in critical
enthusiasm, "nothing public, eh? No scandal--not our class. Men of the
world. No shooting! People don't shoot any more. It's reform, you know,
for the preservation of bachelors."

The effort, the renunciation of his just vengeance, had exhausted
Lightbody, who turned and came back, putting out his hands to steady
himself.

"It isn't that, it's, it's--" Suddenly his fingers encountered on the
table a pair of gloves--his wife's gloves, forgotten there. He raised
them, holding them in his open palm, glanced at De Gollyer and, letting
them fall, suddenly unable to continue, turned aside his head.

"Take time--a good breath," said De Gollyer, in military fashion, "fill
your lungs. Splendid! That's it."

Lightbody, sitting down at the desk, wearily drew the gloves to him,
gazing fixedly at the crushed perfumed fingers.

"Why, Jim," he said finally, "I adore her so--if she can be
happier--happier with another--if that will make her happier than I can
make her--well, I'll step aside, I'll make no trouble--just for her,
just for what she's done for me."

The last words were hardly heard. This time, despite himself, De Gollyer