“Man says he’s husband to Mrs. Nankervis,” said the sergeant.
“He’s no husband of mine. I declare I never set eyes on him before this night. It’s a dirty trick, nothing else, it’s a dirty trick.”
“Why, you’re a liar, saying you never set eyes on me before,” barked the man near the hearth. “You’re married to me, and that girl Maryann you had by me—well enough you know it.”
The young soldiers looked on in delight, the sergeant smoked imperturbed.
“Yes,” sang the landlady, slowly shaking her head in supreme sarcasm, “it sounds very pretty, doesn’t it? But you see we don’t believe a word of it, and how are you going to prove it?” She smiled nastily.
The man watched in silence for a moment, then he said:
“It wants no proof.”
“Oh, yes, but it does! Oh, yes, but it does, sir, it wants a lot of proving!” sang the lady’s sarcasm. “We’re not such gulls as all that, to swallow your words whole.”
But he stood unmoved near the fire. She stood with one hand resting on the zinc-covered bar, the sergeant sat with legs crossed, smoking, on the seat halfway between them, the three young soldiers in their shirts and braces stood wavering in the gloom behind the bar. There was silence.
“Do you know anything of the whereabouts of your husband, Mrs. Nankervis? Is he still living?” asked the sergeant, in his judicious fashion.