After all, Tyson was the first to make up the quarrel. If a sense of
justice was wanting in him it was supplied by a sense of humor, and he
was very soon conscious of something ridiculous in his attitude towards
Stanistreet. He had law and nature on his side for once, but in the eyes
of the humorist, or of impartial justice, there was not very much to
choose between them. In fact the advantage was on Stanistreet's side. He,
Tyson, had thrown his wife and Stanistreet together from the first, he
had exposed her to what, in his view, would have been sharp temptation to
nine women out of ten, and she had not wronged him by a single thought.
As for Stanistreet, he had not taken, or even attempted to take, the
chance he gave him.
His tolerance showed how far he had separated himself from her. A month
ago he would not have thought so lightly of the matter.
One evening, not long after their stormy interview, he turned up at
Stanistreet's rooms in Chelsea, much as he had turned up at Ridgmount
Gardens after his year's absence.
Stanistreet was lying back in a low chair, smoking and thinking. The
change in Louis's appearance was still more striking than when they had
last met. His clothes hung loosely, on him; his whole figure had a
drooping, disjointed look. But the restless light had gone from his eyes;
the muscles of his lean face were set in a curious repose, as if the
man's nature were appeased, as if his will had somehow resisted the
physical collapse. He rose reluctantly as Tyson came in, and stood,
manifestly ill at ease, while Tyson, ignoring the interrogation of his
air, took possession of a seat which was not offered to him.
"Look here, Stanistreet," said he, "I can't stand this any longer. You
and I can't afford to quarrel--about a woman. It's not worth it."
"That is precisely what your wife said. But it's not the way I should put
it myself. We did quarrel; and you at least had every provocation."
"Oh, damn the provocation. You don't suppose I came here to make you
apologize?"
"I'm not going to apologize. When I say you had provocation enough
to justify your putting a bullet into me, I'm merely stating the
conventional view."
"Well--yes. If I hit you hard, it was all above the belt."
"There are some vulnerable parts above the belt, though you mightn't
think it."
"If it comes to that, Stanny, I must say you got your revenge. Trust an
old friend for knowing where to hit. That fist of yours caught me in some
very nasty places. Suppose we shake hands."
They shook hands. Stanistreet's hand was cold as ice. He lowered himself
into his chair, and lit a pipe in token of reconciliation.