Part 88 (2/2)

And he has taught you how to be his wife--not mine.

”You've set everybody laughing at me. They're all saying I was a blind, infatuated fool before. Now you want them to fasten that filthy word 'complacent' on me. You want me to overlook what you have done and what you've brought me to. I'm just to say: 'Well, Persis, you've had your lover and your fling, and you're tired of each other, so come home and welcome, and don't worry over what's past. It's a mere trifle not worth discussing. What's the Seventh Commandment between friends?”

She was trying to silence him, but he had not heeded the return of Crofts till the pheasant was placed before him in all its garnishment, and the plates and the carving-fork and the small game-knife. He was ashamed, not of what he had said of her, but of his own excitement.

”Is the knife sharp?” he asked, for lack of other topic.

”Oh yes, sir,” said Crofts. ”I steeled it myself.”

Willie began anew, groping in his tormented brain for something to dispel the silence. The result was a dazed query:

”By the way, my dear, what's the opera to-night?”

”Carmen,” she said.

He brightened. ”Oh, of course. That's the opera where the fellow kills the girl who betrays him, isn't it?”

”Yes.”

”With a knife like this, eh?” And with a fierce absent-mindedness he made a quick slash in the air. The knife was small and curved a little, and it fitted his hand like a dagger. He chuckled enviously. ”Ah, he was the wise boy, that Don Jose. He knew how to treat faithless women. He knew how to talk to 'em. A knife in the back--that's all they can understand.”

Crofts was too anxiously trying to avoid spilling a drop of the wine he was pouring to heed the warning gestures of Persis. She felt that the breaking-point of Willie's self-control had been reached. She must dismiss the audience. She spoke hastily:

”Willie, my dear--my dear! Won't you send for some champagne--or sherry.

I hate this red wine, and, besides, we've skipped the roast.”

”Oh yes,” Willie agreed, with abrupt calm. ”Crofts, down in the--er--wine-cellar in the farthest end--you'll find laid away by itself one bottle of--er--L'ame de Rheims--one bottle, the last of its ancient and--er--honorable name. Bring that here.”

As Crofts stumbled out on his long journey, Willie commented, ominously:

”It's a good time to say good-by to that vintage!”

His roving eyes discovered Roake standing aloof. Willie snapped his fingers and yelped at him:

”Get out! And stay out!”

Roake withdrew in haste, and Enslee muttered:

”I'm sick of seeing so many people standing around, staring, smirking, listening, thinking about me. I wish I were on a desert island.”

He sat forward to the pheasant, set the fork into it, and paused with the knife motionless. Suddenly there were beads of sweat on his forehead, and he was panting hard; then he groaned:

”My G.o.d, he took my revolver away from me!”

His eyelids seemed to squeeze his eyes in anguish. When he opened them they were bloodshot and so fierce that they seemed to be crossed. He laughed.

”I was too weak to kill your soldier. But I think I'm just about strong enough to pay you up. Carmen got her reward with a knife, and you're no better than she was.”

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