"How little you know me," he said, gravely. "Do you think I am so great a fool as to make such an assertion for the mere sake of making it?"
"If I am not Blair's wife, who is?" she demanded, as if humoring him.
"Come," he said, with a smile; "that is better, because it is more practical and business-like. Continue this tone, my dear Violet, and we shall speedily arrive at an understanding. You want to know who is Blair's wife? Certainly. It is a young lady who was Margaret Hale, but who became the Viscountess of Leyton and Countess of Ferrers."
She started, but it was only at the sound of Margaret's name.
"Margaret Hale! The girl——"
"Exactly. The girl he fell in love with at Leyton Court. What an excellent memory you find when you need it."
"And you say he married her? Oh, spare your breath!" she broke off, with a contemptuous gesture.
"Thanks; I will," he said. "Permit me to give you ocular proof. Here is the certificate of the ceremony; not a copy, please to observe: not a mere copy, but the original itself. The ceremony, as you will see, was performed at a charming old church, in a rural and secluded spot called Sefton. The date is set forth in plain figures, together with all the particulars even the most exacting lawyer could require."
She took the certificate, very much as poor Margaret had taken the false one from Lottie Belvoir, and looked at it with dazed eyes, then she crushed it in her hand, and looked up at him as a dumb animal looks up at the man who has struck it.
"Married to her!—married to her!" she murmured; "and he did not tell me!" A spasm of jealousy shot through her. "Then she was his wife?"