"You had me at your mercy; and showed me little—a very little at first. Afterward, none."
"The words came," he repeated; "I'm sick with self-contempt, I tell you."
She set her white-gloved elbow on the window sill and rested her chin in her palm.
"That—money," she said with an effort. "You set—some—aside for me."
"Half," he nodded calmly.
"Why?"
He was silent.
"Why? I did not ask for it? There was nothing in the—the legal proceedings to lead you to believe that I desired it; was there?"
"No."
"Well, then," her breath came unsteadily, "what was there in me to make you think I would accept it?"
He did not reply.
"Answer me. This is the time to answer me."
"The answer is simple enough," he said in a low voice. "Together we had made a failure of partnership. When that partnership was dissolved, there remained the joint capital to be divided. And I divided it. Why not?"
"That capital was yours in the beginning; not mine. What I had of my own you never controlled; and I took it with me when I went."
"It was very little," he said.
"What of that? Did that concern you? Did you think I would have accepted anything from you? A thousand times I have been on the point of notifying you through attorney that the deposit now standing in my name is at your disposal."
"Why didn't you notify me then?" he asked, reddening to the temples.
"Because—I did not wish to hurt you—by doing it that way. . . . And I had not the courage to say it kindly over my own signature. That is why, Captain Selwyn."
And, as he remained silent: "That is what I had to say; not all—because—I wish to—to thank you for offering it. . . . You did not have very much, either; and you divided what you had. So I thank you—and I return it.". . . The tension forced her to attempt a laugh. "So we stand once more on equal terms; unless you have anything of mine to return—"
"I have your photograph," he said.
The silence lasted until he straightened up and, rubbing the fog from the window glass, looked out.
"We are in the Park," he remarked, turning toward her.
"Yes; I did not know how long it might take to explain matters. You are free of me now whenever you wish."
He picked up the telephone, hesitated: "Home?" he inquired with an effort. And at the forgotten word they looked at one another in stricken silence.
"Y-yes; to your home first, if you will let me drop you there—"
"Thank you; that might be imprudent."
"No, I think not. You say you are living at the Gerards?"
"Yes, temporarily. But I've already taken another place."
"Where?"
"Oh, it's only a bachelor's kennel—a couple of rooms—"
"Where, please?"
"Near Lexington and Sixty-sixth. I could go there; it's only partly furnished yet—"
"Then tell Hudson to drive there."
"Thank you, but it is not necessary—"
"Please let me; tell Hudson, or I will."
"You are very kind," he said; and gave the order.
Silence grew between them like a wall. She lay back in her corner, swathed to the eyes in her white furs; he in his corner sat upright, arms loosely folded, staring ahead at nothing. After a while he rubbed the moisture from the pane again.
"Still in the Park! He must have driven us nearly to Harlem Mere. It is the Mere! See the café lights yonder. It all looks rather gay through the snow."
"Very gay," she said, without moving. And, a moment later: "Will you tell me something? . . . You see"—with a forced laugh—"I can't keep my mind—from it."
"From what?" he asked.
"The—tragedy; ours."
"It has ceased to be that; hasn't it?"
"Has it? You said—you said that w-what I did to you was n-not as terrible as what I d-did to myself."
"That is true," he admitted grimly.
"Well, then, may I ask my question?"
"Ask it, child."
"Then—are you happy?"
He did not answer.
"—Because I desire it, Philip. I want you to be. You will be, won't you? I did not dream that I was ruining your army career when I—went mad—"
"How did it happen, Alixe?" he asked, with a cold curiosity that chilled her. "How did it come about?—wretched as we seemed to be together—unhappy, incapable of understanding each other—"
"Phil! There were days—"
He raised his eyes.
"You speak only of the unhappy ones," she said; "but there were moments—"
"Yes; I know it. And so I ask you, why?"
"Phil, I don't know. There was that last bitter quarrel—the night you left for Leyte after the dance. . . . I—it all grew suddenly intolerable. You seemed so horribly unreal—everything seemed unreal in that ghastly city—you, I, our marriage of crazy impulse—the people, the sunlight, the deathly odours, the torturing, endless creak of the punkha. . . . It was not a question of—of love, of anger, of hate. I tell you I was stunned—I had no emotions concerning you or myself—after that last scene—only a stupefied, blind necessity to get away; a groping instinct to move toward home—to make my way home and be rid for ever of the dream that drugged me! . . . And then—and then—"
"He came," said Selwyn very quietly. "Go on."
But she had nothing more to say.
"Alixe!"
She shook her head, closing her eyes.
"Little girl!—oh, little girl!" he said softly, the old familiar phrase finding its own way to his lips—and she trembled slightly; "was there no other way but that? Had marriage made the world such a living hell for you that there was no other way but that?"
"Phil, I helped to make it a hell."
"Yes—because I was pitiably inadequate to design anything better for us. I didn't know how. I didn't understand. I, the architect of our future—failed."
"It was worse than that, Phil; we"—she looked blindly at him—"we had yet to learn what love might be. We did not know. . . . If we could have waited—only waited!—perhaps—because there were moments—" She flushed crimson.
"I could not make you love me," he repeated; "I did not know how."
"Because you yourself had not learned how. But—at times—now looking back to it—I think—I think we were very near to it—at moments. . . . And then that dreadful dream closed down on us again. . . . And then—the end."
"If you could have held out," he breathed; "if I could have helped! It was I who failed you after all!"
For a long while they sat in silence; Mrs. Ruthven's white furs now covered her face. At last the carriage stopped.
As he sprang to the curb he became aware of another vehicle standing in front of the house—a cab—from which Mrs. Ruthven's maid descended.
"What is she doing here?" he asked, turning in astonishment to Mrs. Ruthven.
"Phil," she said in a low voice, "I knew you had taken this place. Gerald told me. Forgive me—but when I saw you under the awning it came to me in a flash what to do. And I've