"Quite true, my dear friend. I acknowledge it."

"And you say this to my face?"

"Do you wish me to lie?" She did not reply. After a grim pause she burst
forth:--

"Oh, why doesn't he compose an opera, and make a popular name?"

"Richard Wagner Number II!" There were implications of sarcasm in this
which greatly displeased Mrs. Van Kuyp. They strolled on slowly. It was
a melodious summer night; mauve haze screened all but the exquisite
large stars. Soothed despite rebellion, Alixe told herself sharply that
in every duel with this man she was worsted. He said things that
scratched her nerves; yet she forgave. He had not the slightest
attraction for her; nevertheless, when he spoke, she listened, when he
wrote, she read. He ruled the husband through his music; he ruled her
through her husband. And what did he expect?

They retraced their way. A fantastic bridge spanning the brief
marshland, frozen by the moonlight, appealed to them. They crossed. A
coachman driving an open carriage hailed confidentially. Alixe entered
and with a dexterous play of draperies usurped the back seat. Rentgen
made no sign. He had her in full view, the moon streaking her disturbed
features with its unflattering pencil.

They started bravely, the horses running for home; but the rapid gait
soon subsided into a rhythmic trot. Rentgen spoke. She hardly recognized
his voice, so gently monotonous were his phrases.