bluntly. His deference wore away under the corrosion of Steinberg and distress.
"Let us choose our words, my dear M. Struboff. Once I professed attachment to Mlle. Mansoni."
"She loved you?"
"It is discourteous not to accept any impression that a lady wishes to convey to you," I answered, smiling.
"Ah, you know her!" he cried, bringing his fist down on the table.
"Not the least in the world," I assured him. "Her beauty, her charm, her genius—yes, we all know those. But her soul! That's her husband's prerogative."
There was silence for a moment, during which he still looked at me, his thick eyelids half hiding the pathetic gaze of his little eyes.
"My life's a hell!" he said, and laid his head between his hands on the table. I saw a shudder in his fat shoulders.
"My dear M. Struboff," I murmured, as I rose and walked round to him. I did not like touching him, but I forced myself to pat his shoulder kindly. "Women take whims and fancies," said I, as I walked back to my seat.
He raised his head and set his chin between his fists.
"She took me for what she could get out of me," said he.
"Shall we be just? Didn't you look to get something out of her?"
"Yes. I married her for that," he answered. "But I'm a damned fool! I saw that she loathed me; it isn't hard to see. You see it; everybody sees it."
"And you fell in love with her? That was break-
