"He asked me . . . if I thought . . . that Marianne . . ."
She saw him give a shiver. He understood it all. Nevertheless, she went on:
"That Marianne could get to care for him . . . He asked me to go to Bertha . . . and ask her . . ."
"Van Vreeswijck? Marianne?" he repeated; and his eyes were almost black. "Asked you . . . to go to Bertha? . . . Well, you're not mixing yourself up in it, are you? You're not going, surely?"
"I went this morning," she said; and her voice once more sounded discordant.
He seemed to hear a hostile note in it. And, unable to contain himself, he flew into a passion:
"You went? You went this morning?" he raved; and even in his raving she saw the suffering. "Why need you mix yourself up in it? What business has Van Vreeswijck to come asking you? . . . Van Vreeswijck . . ."
He could not find the words. All that he could get out was a rough word, cruel, hard and insulting:
"Plotting and scheming . . . if you want to go plotting . . ."
Her eyes flamed; she felt his intention to insult her. But his suffering was so obvious, she saw him so plainly writhing under his pain, that the angry
