"Jolly sight more than you'll ever be, with your white face and thin figure," she retorted, adding pleasantly: "Your eyes remind me of a snake's."
Poppy sauntered carelessly towards the door.
"And you remind me of the man who, when he was getting the worst of a discussion on original sin, said to the other man: 'If I were you, I would not drink with my mouth full.' I am quite willing to believe anything you like to tell me about your conquests, Sophie; only please don't bother to hunt a husband for me. The good God kindly supplied me with the same instincts as other women. I can do my own hunting."
She went out and closed the door behind her with a gentle, sad movement, as though she was shutting in the light of the world and regretted doing it. A little colour had come to her face. She felt better.
Abinger had gone away. This time his destination was really the Rand, for the boys had taken his luggage to the station and seen him leave. He had told Kykie that he would be away for six weeks at least.
After that stormy scene in the drawing-room, when he had left Poppy wrapped in wild weeping, nothing further had passed between them on the subject of their marriage. Indeed, she had not seen him again. But he had left a letter for her, and enclosed was a copy of the marriage certificate, to show her that he had not been inventing. He further informed her that Father Eugène was still alive, and that by writing to the Jesuit Monastery in the Transvaal she could at any time ascertain the simple truth. The rest of the letter was written in a strain of casual indifference, that Poppy found singularly reassuring. His attitude appeared to be that of a man rather bored with the subject because it bored her; but, facts being facts, he plainly felt it his duty to show her that there were less pleasing and many more boring things in life than to be called Mrs. Abinger. He told her first of all, not to be a foolish girl and make herself ill about nothing; that it would be in every way to her advantage to make her début in South African society as the wife of a well-known man.
"I have not disguised from you," he wrote, "that I have what is called a bad reputation, but that will not affect you—rather redound to your credit in fact, since the wives of rakes are always looked upon as possessing something unusual in the way of brains and charm. As my wife, your lines will be laid in not unpleasant places. You may have as many friends as you like, and I will allow you five thousand pounds a year to entertain them and yourself upon. In making the matter public, no painful details need be gone into. All that is necessary is that you give me permission to make the truth public. Tell me when you are ready to assume the title of Mrs. Abinger—I'll do the rest. In this, dear girl, as in all things, pray please yourself. Only, remember that if you don't choose to accept the situation, the situation still remains—we are married. And it is only under the conditions stated that I can permit you to live any other life than the one you have lived so long."