“Grief,” she said—“and Mr. Bedding.”
“Your husband?”
“O, no!” says she. “There was no bedding with him.”
He conned her shrewdly. He was already beginning to recover himself, and to suspect a hussy under this rose.
“Why not?” he said.
“He was that jealous,” she answered, “if the moon looked in at the window, he would accuse me of making eyes at the man in her.”
“That was in Wiltshire?”
“Where our home was, sure.”
“And so you left him?”
“Mr. Bedding came by, and took me to sing for him. But a strolling company was never to my taste.”