"Yes, he is well," Drexley answered, bitterly. "Living, like a sensible
man, honestly by the labour of his brain, the friend and companion of
men--not the sycophant of a woman. I envy him."

She pointed lazily towards the door.

"He was man enough to choose for himself," she said; "so may you. To
tell you the truth, my dear friend, when you weary me like this, I feel
inclined to say--go, and when I say go--it is for always."

Then there came into his face something which she had seen there once
before, and which ever since she had recalled with a vague
uneasiness--the look murderous. The veins in his forehead became like
whipcord--there was a red flash in his eyes. Yet his self-control was
marvellous. His voice, when he spoke, seemed scarcely to rise above a
whisper.

"For always?" he surmised--"it would be rest at least. You are not an
easy task-mistress, Emily."

Her momentary fear of him evaporated almost as quickly as it had been
conceived. She stood with her hand on the bell. "I think," she said,
"that you had better go to your club."

He held out a protesting hand--tamed at any rate for the moment.

"You were speaking of Jesson," he said. "Well?"

She moved her finger from the bell, conscious that the crisis was past.
She might yet score a victory.