"It makes a brute of you; it's killing you!"

"The sooner the better," he said.

"For you, perhaps; but what about me?"

"Don't you ever think of any one but yourself?" he sneered.

"Is that the way it impresses you?" she asked coldly.

She slipped into the chair opposite him and began slowly to draw off her
gloves. Langham was silent for a minute or two; he gazed intently at her
and by degrees the hard steely glitter faded from his heavy bloodshot
eyes. Fascinated, his glance dwelt upon her; nothing of her fresh beauty
was lost on him; the smooth curve of her soft white throat, the alluring
charm of her warm sensuous lips, the tiny dimple that came and went when
she smiled, the graceful pliant lines of her figure, the rare poise
of her small head--his glance observed all. For better or for worse he
loved her with whatever of the man there was in him; he might hate her
in some sudden burst of fierce anger because of her shallowness, her
greed, her utter selfishness; but he loved her always, he could never be
wholly free from the spell her beauty had cast over him.

[Illustration: Why, what's the matter, Marsh?]

"Look here, Evelyn," he said at last. "What's the use of going on in
this way, why can't we get back to some decent understanding?" He was
hungry for tenderness from her; acute physical fear was holding him in
its grip. He leaned back in his chair and found support for his head.