“Spies?” echoed Brant abstractedly, with a momentary reminiscence of Miss Faulkner.
“Yes, spies,” continued Hooker, with dogged mystery. “One half of Washington is watching t'other half, and, from the President's wife down, most of the women are secesh!”
Brant suddenly fixed his keen eyes on his guest. But the next moment he reflected that this was only Jim Hooker's usual speech, and possessed no ulterior significance. He smiled again, and said, more gently,—
“And how is Mrs. Hooker?”
Mr. Hooker fixed his eyes on the ceiling, rose, and pretended to look out of the window; then, taking his seat again by the table, as if fronting an imaginary audience, and pulling slowly at his gauntlets after the usual theatrical indication of perfect sangfroid, said,—
“There ain't any!”
“Good heavens!” said Brant, with genuine emotion. “I beg your pardon. Really, I”—
“Mrs. Hooker and me are divorced,” continued Hooker, slightly changing his attitude, and leaning heavily on his sabre, with his eyes still on his fanciful audience. “There was, you understand”—lightly tossing his gauntlet aside—“incompatibility of temper—and—we—parted! Ha!”
He uttered a low, bitter, scornful laugh, which, however, produced the distinct impression in Brant's mind that up to that moment he had never had the slightest feeling in the matter whatever.
“You seemed to be on such good terms with each other!” murmured Brant vaguely.