She stood plucking with one hand at the fingers of the other; and when the whirl subsided and she came dizzily out of it her mind was leaden and the first words she could get from it were none she wanted.
Her voice all thick: "He was not married," she said.
The reply, very gentle: "We did not tell any one."
And to that nothing better than "Why?"
"Roly did not wish it."
Thick and heavy still: "Why do you come now?"
And Audrey in a little cry: "Because he is dead!"
Then Lady Burdon said dully: "You had better go," and at the bewilderment that came into Audrey's eyes repeated more strongly: "You had better go—quickly;" and then "Quickly!" with her voice run up on the word, and her hands that had been plucking flung apart.
Her mind was over its numbness and through the whirl of nightmare meanings in that "I am Roly's wife;" and it came out of them as one shaken by a fall and strung up for vengeance. Marriage! Impossible! And she a fool to be frightened by it—at worst a horrid aftermath of disgusting conduct.
"Quickly!" she cried and then burst out with: "I see what you are—to come at such a time—to this house of mourning—he scarcely dead—with such a story—wicked—infamous—I know, I see now why you were surprised to see me—an old lady you expected—grief-stricken—"