But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. You think everything is harmless and simple, and so forth. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. “Well, I have said what I had to say, stumblingly and badly, and baldly. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign. Best assured of that. That she was provoked by his interference was obvious. “I have no wish,” he said, “to altogether ignore the fact that you are my wife’s sister, and have therefore a certain claim upon me. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him.
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