I knew her capable of
temper, for all the calmness of her manner; and if Stroeve
still refused, she might easily have flung out of the studio
with vows never to return. But the little man was so
distressed that I could not smile.
"My dear fellow, don't be unhappy. She'll come back.
You mustn't take very seriously what women say when they're
in a passion."
"You don't understand. She's in love with Strickland."
"What!" I was startled at this, but the idea had no sooner
taken possession of me than I saw it was absurd. "How can you
be so silly? You don't mean to say you're jealous of Strickland?"
I almost laughed. "You know very well that she
can't bear the sight of him."
"You don't understand," he moaned.
"You're an hysterical ass," I said a little impatiently.
"Let me give you a whisky-and-soda, and you'll feel better."
I supposed that for some reason or other -- and Heaven knows
what ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves -- Dirk had
got it into his head that his wife cared for Strickland, and
with his genius for blundering he might quite well have
offended her so that, to anger him, perhaps, she had taken
pains to foster his suspicion.
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