Pride, wounded self-love, a smothered sense of indignation, blind anger, began to gather their gloomy forces in her mind.

"The worst, and of you!" How the echoes of these words came back in constant repetition! "The worst, and of you!" "How often has Major Willard ridden with you at night ?" asked Hartley, in a cold, resolute way.
No answer.
"And did you always come directly home ?" Hartley Emerson was looking steadily into the face of his wife, from which he saw the color fall away until it became of an ashen hue.
"You do not care to answer.

Well, silence is significative," said the husband, closing his lips firmly.

There was a blending of anger, perplexity, pain, sorrow and scorn in his face, all of which Irene read distinctly as she fixed her eyes steadily upon him.

He tried to gaze back until her eyes should sink beneath his steady look, but the effort was lost; for not a single instant did they waver.
He was about turning away, when she arrested the movement by saying, "Go on, Hartley Emerson! Speak of all that is in your mind.