THE BETTER SORT
"Mad—oh yes. But not, I think, honestly. He's not honestly anything in the world but the Beadel-Muffet of our delight."
"Your delight," Maud observed after a moment, "revolts me." And then she said: "When did you last see him?"
"On Tuesday at six, love. I was one of the last."
"Decidedly, too, then, I judge, one of the worst." She gave him her idea. "You hounded him on."
"I reported," said Bight, "success. Told him how it was going."
"Oh, I can see you! So that if he's dead———"
"Well?" asked Bight blandly.
"His blood is on your hands."
He eyed his hands a moment. "They are dirty for him! But now, darling," he went on, "be so good as to show me yours."
"Tell me first," she objected, "what you believe. Is it suicide?"
"I think that's the thing for us to make it. Till somebody," he smiled, "makes it something else." And he showed how he warmed to the view. "There are weeks of it, dearest, yet."
He leaned more toward her, with his elbows on the table, and in this position, moved by her extreme gravity, he lightly flicked her chin with his finger. She threw herself, still grave, back from his touch, but they remained thus a while closely confronted. "Well," she at last remarked, "I sha'n't pity you."
"You make it, then, everyone except me?"
"I mean," she continued, "if you do have to loathe yourself."
"Oh, I sha'n't miss it." And then as if to show how little, "I did mean it, you know, at Richmond," he declared.
"I won't have you if you've killed him," she presently returned.
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