LEWISHAM INSISTS
The room was lined with bookshelves and conspicuous therein was a long row of foolish pretentious volumes, the "works" of Lagune—the witless, meandering imitation of philosophy that occupied his life. Along the cornices were busts of Plato, Socrates and Newton. Behind Ethel was the great man's desk with its green-shaded electric light, and littered with proofs and copies of Hesperus, "A paper for Doubters," which with her assistance he edited, published, compiled, wrote, and (without her help) paid for and read. A pen, flung down forcibly, quivered erect with its one surviving nib in the blotting pad. Mr. Lagune had flung it down.
The collapse of the previous night had distressed him dreadfully, and ever and again before his retreat he had been breaking into passionate monologue. The ruin of a life-work it was, no less. Surely she had known that Chaffery was a cheat. Had she not known? Silence. "After so many kindnesses———"
She had interrupted him with a wailing "Oh, I know—I know."
But Lagune had been remorseless and insisted she had betrayed him, worse—made him ridiculous! Look at the "work" he had undertaken at South Kensington—how could he go on with that now? How could he find the heart? When his own typist sacrificed him to her stepfather's trickery? "Trickery!"
The gesticulating hands became active, the grey eyes dilated with indignation, the piping voice eloquent.
"If he hadn't cheated you, some one else would,"
335
