How often had he said those very words to other women! He did it
surpassingly well. She continued to act. "Oh, Gilbert," she said in
a low voice, "you mustn't. There's Alice." Two could play at his pet
game.

"Yes, there is Alice. But what does that matter? I don't care, and
you don't. Your motto is not to care. You're always saying so. I'm
no more married to Alice than you are to Gray. They're accidents,
both of them. I love you, I tell you." And he ran his hand up to her
shoulder and bore down upon her. Where were his manners and polish
and assurance? It was amazing to see the change in the man.

But she dodged away and took up a stand behind the piano and laughed
at him. "You're an artist, Gilbert," she said. "It's all very well
for you to practice on women of your own age, but I'm an
unsophisticated girl. You might turn my head, you know."

Her sarcasm threw him up short. She was mocking. He was profoundly
hurt. "But you've chosen me. You've picked me out. You've used me to
take you to places night after night! Don't fool with me, Joan. I'm
in dead earnest."

And she saw with astonishment that he was. His face was white, and
he stood in a curious attitude of supplication, with his hands out.
She was amazed, and for a moment thrilled. Gilbert Palgrave, the
woman's man, in love with her. Think of it!

"But Gilbert," she said, "there's Alice. She's my friend." That
seemed to matter more than the fact that she was his wife.