THE TOUCHSTONE
of the hansom; but when the cabman bent down he dropped into his seat without speaking. Then, becoming conscious of the prolonged interrogation of the lifted lid, he called out—"Turn—drive back—anywhere—I'm in a hurry—"
As the cab swung round he caught a last glimpse of the two figures. They had not moved; Alexa, with bent head, stood listening.
"My God, my God—" he groaned.
It was hideous—it was abominable—he could not understand it. The woman was nothing to him—less than nothing—yet the blood hummed in his ears and hung a cloud before him. He knew it was only the stirring of the primal instinct, that it had no more to do with his reasoning self than any reflex impulse of the body; but that merely lowered anguish to disgust. Yes, it was disgust he felt—almost a physical nausea. The poisonous fumes of life were in his lungs. He was sick, unutterably sick. . .
He drove home and went to his room. They were giving a little dinner that night, and when he came down the guests were arriving. He looked at his
[ 126 ]
