Arthur looked away in embarrassment. He could not help a slight, instinctive movement of withdrawal.
“Do I disgust you?” she said.
He flushed slightly, but scarcely knew how to answer. He made a vague gesture of denial.
“If you only knew,” she said.
There was something so extraordinary in her tone that he gave her a quick glance of surprise. He saw that her cheeks were flaming. Her bosom was panting as though she were again on the point of breaking into a passion of tears.
“For God’s sake, don’t look at me!” she cried.
She turned away and hid her face. The words she uttered were in a shamed unnatural voice.
“If you’d been at Monte Carlo you’d have heard them say, God knows how they knew it, that it was only through me he had his luck at the tables. He’s contented himself with filling my soul with vice. And yet I have no purity in me. I’m sullied through and through. He has made me into a sink of iniquity, and I loathe myself. I cannot look at myself without a shudder of disgust.”
A cold sweat came over Arthur, and he grew more pale than ever. He realised now he was in the presence of a mystery that he could not unravel. She went on feverishly.
“The other night, at supper, I told a story, and I saw you wince with shame. It wasn’t I that told it. The impulse came from him, and I knew it was vile, and yet I told it with gusto. I enjoyed the telling of it; I enjoyed the pain I gave you, and the
