“No,” said she irresolutely. “But DO you drive the brougham out every night?”
“Except Sunday.”
“Where?”
“My dear wife, I never loved you as I love you now; and if it was not for you, I should not drive the brougham out of nights. That is all I shall tell you at present; but some day I'll tell you all about it.”
He took such a calm high hand with her about it, that she submitted to leave it there; but from this moment the serpent doubt nibbled her.
It had one curious effect, though. She left off complaining of trifles.
Now it happened one night that Lady Cicely Treherne and a friend were at a concert in Hanover Square. The other lady felt rather faint, and Lady Cicely offered to take her home. The carriages had not yet arrived, and Miss Macnamara said to walk a few steps would do her good: a smart cabman saw them from a distance and drove up, and touching his hat said, “Cab, ladies?”
It seemed a very superior cab, and Miss Macnamara said “Yes” directly.
The cabman bustled down and opened the door; Miss Macnamara got in first, then Lady Cicely; her eye fell on the cabman's face, which was lighted full by a street-lamp, and it was Christopher Staines!
He started and winced; but the woman of the world never moved a muscle.