The blood rushed to Glennard's forehead. He sat up with a jerk
and pushed back the lid in the roof of the hansom; but when the
cabman bent down he dropped into his seat without speaking. Then,
becoming conscious of the prolonged interrogation of the lifted
lid, he called out--"Turn--drive back--anywhere--I'm in a hurry--"

As the cab swung round he caught a last glimpse of the two
figures. They had not moved; Alexa, with bent head, stood
listening.

"My God, my God--" he groaned.

It was hideous--it was abominable--he could not understand it.
The woman was nothing to him--less than nothing--yet the blood
hummed in his ears and hung a cloud before him. He knew it was
only the stirring of the primal instinct, that it had no more to
do with his reasoning self than any reflex impulse of the body;
but that merely lowered anguish to disgust. Yes, it was disgust
he felt--almost a physical nausea. The poisonous fumes of life
were in his lungs. He was sick, unutterably sick. . . .

He drove home and went to his room. They were giving a little
dinner that night, and when he came down the guests were arriving.
He looked at his wife: her beauty was extraordinary, but it seemed
to him the beauty of a smooth sea along an unlit coast. She
frightened him.

He sat late that night in his study. He heard the parlor-maid
lock the front door; then his wife went upstairs and the lights
were put out. His brain was like some great empty hall with an