He looked at her keenly, pointing at her with the burr he had just caught between forefinger and thumb.
“Madam, do you work? Is this house—that gown—a charming gown, too—the result of your labour?”
“No,” she admitted; and, after a brief pause, answering the unworded question she felt those keen eyes were asking, she added: “I married for this house and this gown.”
“Ah! then you, too, do cowardly things. You dared not face life without wealth, so you sold yourself at so much per inch of beauty. Dear lady, you are a parasite—and selfish, withal! What right have you, who married for food, to blame me for taking food without the preliminary of a church ceremony?”
Rosamond’s tone was plaintive and offended.
“You say very unpleasant things. You make very severe criticisms. You have no right to enter my house in the middle of the night and criticise.”
He made a gesture of alarm, and laughed.
“No, no! Heaven forbid! I make no more criticisms. I’ve suffered too much from my critical tongue. Do you know there are places where they put critics in prison?”
“You said you came for food. Did you find it?”
“Not yet,” hopefully. “Occasionally, in my wanderings, I have lived on the back porches of the charitable in the great cities. Also I have dined with princes—at great cost!” He smothered a laugh.