"His wife is dead," she said, in a smothered tone.
"Oh, then, you did ask him?" said Hugo, looking at her. "Is that what he came to tell you?"
Kitty did not reply. She had thrown a shawl over her head before coming out, and she stood drawing the edges of it closer across her bosom with nervous, twitching fingers and averted face.
"Why did you come out in that way?" queried her husband. "You look like a madwoman in that shawl. You looked more like one than ever when you ran after that dog-cart, waving your hands for Vivian to stop. He did not want to see you or to be forced into an interview."
"Then you have been watching me?"
"I always watch you. Women are such fools that they require watching. What did you want to speak to Vivian about?"
"I will not tell you," said Kitty, suddenly growing pale.
"Then it is something that you ought not to have said. I understand your ways by this time. Come here, close to me." She came like a frightened child. "Look at me, kiss me." She obeyed, after some faint show of reluctance. He put his arm round her and kissed her several times, on cheek and brow and lips. "You don't like that," he said, releasing her at last with a smile. "That is why I do it. You are mine now, remember, not Vivian's. Now tell me what you said to him."
"Never!" said Kitty, with a gasp.
A change passed over Hugo's face.