She walked into the familiar surroundings and as soon as they reached the drawing room collapsed on the divan. Burying her face in her hands, she began to weep bitterly. He fell on his knees in front of her, trying to prise her hands away and look into her eyes. ‘Irene, Irene,’ he kept saying, ‘I beg of you tell me what on earth is the matter.’

Between sobs she began to mumble, ‘I can’t go on living like this, I can’t …’

Uncomprehending, he said: ‘What do you mean, like this? Like what?’

‘I can’t … can’t go on as things are … at home … You don’t know … I’ve never told you … it’s terrible … I can’t go on any longer … just now … he hit me …’

‘Who? Your husband?’

‘My husband, yes.’

‘Oh, the … !’

Never having suspected him to be violent, Jacques could not believe his ears. The man moved in the most select of circles, was a member of the best clubs, rode, fenced and had the ear of influential politicians. With impeccable manners, a mediocre mind unburdened by either education or real intelligence, and a firm grasp of all the right prejudices – all the hallmarks of a gentleman in fact – he was well liked, much quoted and respected by all.

Like every other rich man of good family he appeared to take as much interest in his wife as was required. He knew the state of her health, her taste in clothes, and various other things. Apart from that, he left her pretty much to her own devices. Once Randal became a friend of Irene, he was given the warm handshake any sensible husband reserves for his wife’s close friends. Once he became her lover his relations with the husband were even more cordial, as is perfectly right and proper. He had never suspected any difficulties within the marriage and was therefore staggered by this unexpected revelation.

‘How did it happen? Tell me.’

She began to recount the whole long story of her married life since its beginning. Triggered by a trivial disagreement at first, a rift had begun to grow, widening every day between their two diametrically opposite characters. Further quarrels followed, and then a virtual separation which was never made public. After that, her husband had become aggressive, quick to anger and finally violent. Now he was jealous, jealous of Jacques, and that very day, after a scene, had struck her.

Once again she said with conviction: ‘I’m never going back to him. You can do what you like with me.’

Jacques went to sit down opposite her. Their knees touched as he took both her hands in his.

‘My dearest, that would be a very foolish, a hopelessly foolish move. If you really do want to leave your husband then you must make sure it is he who is entirely in the wrong. Then your reputation as a woman of the highest honour will remain intact.