She turned toward him with a look of such abject terror that he repented the experiment. The color had simply dropped from her face, leaving it white and rigid.
"Why do you call him—why do you use that name?" she asked with dry lips.
"I heard you say it."
"I?" she said incredulously, "when?"
"Not a half hour ago. It sounded to me as if you dropped into it from habit."
She laughed uneasily, but her color was coming back. "Her name is Philippa. You probably heard me say that and thought I said Philip. She—she doesn't often get her real name."
He was looking at her with a quizzical smile. He knew from Bess—or thought he did—that the child's name was Margaret.
"You don't lie as if you were used to it," he said coolly. "Try it again."
"How dare you talk to me like that?" she cried. "And by what right do you question me?"
"I haven't questioned you. What you have told has been told voluntarily. I hardly think you would stick to it if I should question you, but I have no intention of doing it." Then he came nearer to her and spoke very seriously.