"You've acted the part of an unmitigated coward, Vallincourt--salving
your own fool conscience at your wife's expense. Even if you no longer
love her--"

"But I do love her," protested Hugh. "I--I _worship_ her!"

Jim Lancaster stared. In common with most medical men he was more or
less used to the odd vagaries of human nature, but Hugh's attitude
struck him as altogether incomprehensible.

"Then what in the name of thunder have you been getting at?" he
demanded.

"I both love and hate her," declared Hugh wretchedly.

"That's rot," retorted the other. "It's impossible."

"It's not impossible."

Hugh rose and began pacing backwards and forwards. Lancaster's eyes
rested on him thoughtfully. The man had altered during the last few
weeks--altered incredibly. He was a stone lighter to start with, and
his blond, clear-cut face had the worn look born of mental conflict. His
eyes were red-rimmed as though from insufficient sleep.

"It's not impossible." Hugh paused in his restless pacing to and fro. "I
love her because I can't help myself. I hate her because I ought never
to have married her--never made a woman of her type the mother of my
child."