“A man may not have two wives—even in the Quartier Latin, I believe,” sneered Miss Cleeve with her mouth awry, and Mrs Valetta broke in harshly:
“It is ridiculous to pretend to be unenlightened on that point. I warned you that he was married and I shall let every one know that you were not in ignorance of the fact.”
“I do not believe what you told me. It is not true,” I said, my anger breaking out at last. “And I refuse to discuss the matter further. There is not a grain of generosity amongst the three of you. You prefer to believe the worst; do so.” As I turned to leave the room and the house I stopped for an instant and faced them. My passionate words seemed to have stricken them dumb. “But do not believe that I do not know what my real crime is.”
Nonie Valetta sat down suddenly on a chair and passed her handkerchief across her dry mouth. She looked like a haunted thing, and I was sorry for her. But Anna Cleeve faced me with sneering lips. Malice and some other bitter passion stared from her eyes, and she half whispered, half hissed, a word at me across the darkening room.
“What?”
“That Anthony Kinsella loves me.” The words had formed on my lips and I was ready to fling them at her: but I did not. I left the words unsaid and anger died down within me, for I could recognise despair when I saw it. It was not hard for me to imagine the torment of a woman who loved Anthony Kinsella and was passed by. I could afford to be generous: generosity was demanded of me.
“Let it all pass,” I said gently, and turning from them opened the door and went out of the house.