She seemed to sink deeper and deeper into her sea of misery.

“You’ll say ’twas my fault! You never understood me! Never knew me!”

“I tried, Sophia. I did my best—only it was never good enough. Can we not—start again?”

“You don’t mean it! You don’t really love me!”

He was silent.

“God help me! Oh, God help me! I am so unhappy! You never made me happy! You never tried! You never understood! You are cruel!”

He knew that it was hopeless to soothe her. He drew away to the fire and stood with his hand on the mantel-shelf, staring down into the blaze. On the floor by the couch Sophia wept on, alternately pouring forth recriminations and broken appeals for forgiveness.

But presently her sobs abated, and she crouched listless on the thick carpet. Then he went to her, and raised her. It was the old routine; the three past years might not have been. He brought her her salts, and sat beside her, holding her hand. At last she opened her eyes.

“You want to take me back?” she asked, husky from crying.

“Yes, Sophia. Have we drifted too far?”

“Oh, no, no, no! I am a wicked woman, but I will be better! Oh, Henry, take me away! It is London that gives me these megrims, and the worry—the dreadful worry! The dice—the cards—I cannot help it—forgive me! oh, forgive me!”

“It is forgiven, Sophia. Don’t speak of it again.”

“How good you are! I worship you! Oh, you will take me away, before I ruin you with my play! God knows we have come near it!”

“Hush, dear! Yes, I will take you away.”

She flicked her hand across her eyes.

“Yes, oh yes! These joys are killing me—I never go abroad, you have never taken me; you would never! It was unkind, Henry! Unkind!”

“Yes, Sophia, it was unkind. But I will take you now.”

She sat up, already smiling.

“I want to go to Italy! Lady Pamela Palmer went, and my dearest Kitty, last year. Oh, how I longed to go!” She caught his hands. “And you—why, you are half Italian! Farquhar, you’ve a title—an Italian title! And an estate! That is where I will go! Oh, say you will take me!”

He pulled his hands away.

“No, not there!” For the first time since he had entered the room his voice lost its even tone. It sounded harsh even to his ears. “Anywhere but there!” He got up and went back to the fire.

The jealous, peevish light sprang to her eyes again. She sank back on to the cushions with a long wail of discontent.

“Oh, you do not love me! You refuse me the one thing I ask!”

He winced.

“For God’s sake, Sophia, no more hysterics!” he said sharply.

She quivered and burst into tears.

“Go away, go away! You don’t care, it’s nothing to you! Oh, I am miserable!”

“Sophia, anywhere but there! Paris, Vienna—where you will, but leave me that one—” He broke off, pressing his handkerchief to his lips.