“A week ago yesterday.”
“Have you seen her since?”
“I never talk to her or she to me. We say, ‘How do you do? What lovely weather!’ and that’s all we ever do say. We haven’t even any neighbourly contact through congenial servants, because of our having coloured people;—hers are white. I haven’t caught a glimpse of her since it happened until this afternoon, when she came to Mrs. Cromwell’s tea. Of course, she knew I was looking at her, and she knew perfectly what I was thinking—particularly about her insult to me in making such a goose of my husband.”
“But, Lydia——”
“She was having the time of her life over that!”
“Well,” he said, reflectively, “leaving out the question of whether or not I was a goose especially, and considering her without personal bias, I must say that under the circumstances she’s shown a mighty picturesque intricacy of character, as well as a pretty dashing kind of hardihood. If, as you believe, she sent her note to me as really a derisive taunt—a gauntlet flung at you with mocking laughter—and all the while she knows you know of her philandering with a good-looking varlet——”
“She’s a bad woman!” Mrs. Dodge exclaimed, angrily. “That’s all there is to it, and you needn’t be so poetical about her!”
“Good gracious, Lydia, I wasn’t——”
“Never mind! We can talk of her just as well without any references to gauntlets and mocking laughter and varlets. That is, if you insist upon talking about her at all. For my part, I prefer just to keep her entirely out of my mind.”
“Very well,” he assented, meekly. “I don’t know that I can keep anything so singular out of my mind; but I won’t speak of it if it annoys you. What else shall we talk of?”