She, seated on the floor, was putting on boots.
When she had finished one and was beginning on the other he
said stolidly:
"You think I did it"--not a question but an assertion.
"I know it," replied she. She was so seated that he was
seeing her in profile.
"Yes--I did," he went on. He settled himself more deeply in
the chair, crossed his leg. "And I am glad that I did."
She kept on at lacing the boot. There was nothing in her
expression to indicate emotion, or even that she heard.
"I did it," continued he, "because I had the right. He
invited it. He knew me--knew what to expect. I suppose he
decided that you were worth taking the risk. It's strange
what fools men--all men--we men--are about women. . . .
Yes, he knew it. He didn't blame me."
She stopped lacing the boot, turned so that she could look at him.
"Do you remember his talking about me one day?" he went on,
meeting her gaze naturally. "He said I was a survival of the
Middle Ages--had a medieval Italian mind--said I would do
anything to gain my end--and would have a clear conscience
about it. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
"But you don't see why I had the right to kill him?"
A shiver passed over her. She turned away again, began again
to lace the boot--but now her fingers were uncertain.
"I'll explain," pursued he. "You and I were getting along
fine. He had had his chance with you and had lost it.
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