Of a sudden she spoke.
"Shouldn't she be Mrs. Scripps?" she asked pointedly.
"Not at all," was the quick answer. "There was a Mrs. Scripps, you see. Miss Agnes Scripps is in her tenth year. Her mother died when she was four. Her mother was David Phipps's sister."
Nina sank a trifle lower in her chair. It was the very last thing she expected. The weight of the revelation robbed her for the moment of words.
She had married, believing Kneedrock dead. But he had married, knowing her to be living. All her blood seemed rushing to her face. She was never more incensed.
Mr. Widdicombe was quick to note her emotion. "You must not forget, Mrs. Darling, that at this time the viscount believed he had completely buried himself in his island home. He had no intention of ever returning to England."
Her long, tapering fingers, each a psychic index, were playing a tattoo on the arms of her chair.
"If he wished to bury himself," she said warmly, "he should have remained dead. But he took pains to send me word that he was alive."
"That was before he left Africa, however; and he did so after some protest at my advice. It was purely to avoid certain possible legal complications."
Nina continued her nervous tapping. Presently she asked: "What was his wife like?"