'Please remember we are due at Mrs. Joran's in the afternoon,' said Laurette.
'Who is he?' asked her husband, as the door closed after Stella.
Laurette pretended not to understand.
'Oh, aren't you behind the scenes, then? A young lady does not colour like Aurora because a handful of letters come from the family circle. And such a dewy smile! Ye gods, what it must be to be a girl and in love! The girl has a lovely face!'
'Oh, probably there was a letter from Ted,' returned Laurette, trying to speak carelessly.
Tareling looked at her narrowly, and then gave a short laugh.
'Fancy a girl like Stella colouring up to the whites of her eyes, and smiling timidly, because she got one of Ritchie's croppy, jockey-like epistles! You are sometimes too funny, Laurette. What is your little game now?'
A sickening fear shot across Laurette's mind. She knew that, in the decorums of life in which she herself was founded as on a rock, her husband scarcely knew the draping of virtue's garment. But it was also equally clear to her that, if he knew a third part of her 'little game,' in this instance, he would overwhelm her with anger and scorn and unsparing exposure. It seemed to her as if Stella might appear at any moment, denouncing the palpable treachery that had been practised on her. But there was no tremor of fear in her voice as she answered:
'Ted is a dreadful cub, isn't he, except when he signs cheques that may be treated as blank ones?'
'It appears to me you are acquiring a habit of repeating yourself. Of course a man doesn't expect to be amused in a tête-à-tête with his wife. But—ah—don't you think you might hit on a variation?'