"Oh, well, if you want the whole of it, I'm Lady Susan Woolf, sister of the Earl of Cantire." Without a trace of mauvaise honte the speaker went on, "You've heard of us, I should think: the hottest lot in the peerage."
Maggy's blank look showed that she was still at fault.
"But what relation—" she began.
"I'm Mr. Woolf's wife," cut in that lady. "Are you—the other woman?"
A quiver, not unlike that which vibrates through a ship when it runs on a sunken rock, convulsed Maggy. Like a stricken ship she seemed to hear the waters of desolation rushing through her vitals. But she kept her nerve. She would go down, if she had to, with band playing and flags flying, so to speak. Not to this woman, who was regarding her with lazy indifference, would she show the white feather, admit defeat or desertion. But Fred secretly married! ... He had lied to get away on his honeymoon ... and then come back to her after it! ... The rank infidelity of it ... to two women at once. All Maggy's womanhood was up in arms, outraged.
"You use rather odd language," she said with dreadful calm. "I think I must have come to the wrong house."
"Well, if you came to see Fred Woolf he lives here—when he's in." Again the low, lazy laugh accompanied the rejoinder.
"Do I amuse you?" asked Maggy.
"No, not you personally. You look too dashed serious. Drawing room melodrama sort of expression. The situation's a bit quaint. Not many wives would take it calmly when their husband's pasts come knocking at their front door and walking in without being asked. I don't care. Daresay some of my old flames will flicker up now and then. I'm easy-going because it pays. But, honestly, I hope Fred hasn't left you on the mat?"
The question was quite devoid of offense.