"He bought it," said Morris doggedly.
"I don't believe it."
"He bought it; and I want you to tell everybody we sold at a loss—a big loss. You can say we're thinking of living in the country. Not a word to anyone that'd indicate there's any mystery about the sale." This without looking up.
She studied his face—the careworn but still handsome features, the bad lines about the eyes and mouth, the splendid intellectuality of the brow, a confused but on the whole disagreeable report upon the life and character within. "I think I do understand," she said slowly. Then, like a vicious jab, "At least, as much as I want to understand."
She strolled toward the door, sliding one soft, jeweled hand reflectively over her bare shoulders. She paused before a statuette and inspected it carefully, her hands behind her back, her fingers slowly locking and unlocking. Presently she gave a queer little laugh and said, "It wasn't the house, it was you Trafford bought."
A pause, then he: "He thinks so."
Again a pause, she smiling softly up at the statuette. Without facing him she said, "I must have my share, Joe."
He did not answer.
She waited a few minutes, repeated, "I must have my share."
"Yes," he replied.