“To make him suffer for me what I’ve suffered for him.”
“Jealousy?”
“He would not hate me then.”
The face of the arch-plotter fell.
“I see you love him through all,” he said sourly.
“Why should I not love him?” she answered. “He is my husband.”
Hamilton pulled himself together. “This faith,” he thought, with an acid thrill, “is worth converting.”
“Why indeed?” said he. “Well, I don’t know if he’s jealous of me or not; but if that’s your recipe for curing him, we two might make a plausible conspiracy of it. Shall we rehearse the business now, Kate?”
He put a persuasive hand on her arm. She bethought herself, and squeaked out.
“You hurt me, cousin”—and she backed a little. “A play like ours is only make-believe.”