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things in her past, are you willing that she should have pleasant ones in her present?’ She was willing, more than willing, to hurt Clive. He had done more than hurt her. She could not live after seeing that cold hatred burn in his eyes.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked sternly. Monica rose to her feet. She felt no weariness. The poison of his hatred mounted in her, lending her a horrible strength. ‘Do you forgive your wife everything, and your mother nothing? Are you in the plot that brought her lover here to live? Was it acting on your part, too, the other night? Or must I tell you— since they have hoodwinked you—that Captain Ingpen is her lover?’

‘What are you saying? You are mad,’ said Clive. As she saw his face a ghastly happiness filled her heart. He had been deceived. ‘You are mad, Clive repeated. ‘It has become a disease in you, your hatred.’

‘Ask her if it is a disease! Monica panted. ‘Ask her whose ring he wears! Ask her when they saw Chartres together! Ask her why she cried this afternoon when he was with her and Robin was sent away!—I know it all! I have seen it all!—You unfortunate, you hoodwinked, you miserable child!’