"What—what is her name?" she demanded, and her voice was hard and hoarse.
He took an ivory tablet from his pocket and consulted it.
"Her name is Margaret—a pretty name; reminds one of Faust, doesn't it? Margaret Hale."
"Margaret Hale," she repeated slowly; then she came and stood in front of him, her gray eyes as hard as steel, her lips drawn across her white, even teeth. "And he—you say—he is in love with her?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"He says so," he said coldly.
"And—and he speaks of marrying her?"
"Apparently it is the one and absorbing desire of his life," he responded in exactly the same manner.
She opened her lips as if about to speak again, then sank on to a couch in silence.
He rose.