“She does.”
“When?”
“When we became engaged.”
“Yet you proposed and she accepted.”
Peter squirmed. “But I didn’t know she cared about—about some one else.”
“Who?”
“An—an artist.”
“Who?”
“I met him at your house.” Peter’s anger was rising, as will the anger of the worst frightened boy in the world if the whipping is kept up long enough. “I might have known,” he cried. “I did suspect, the day I saw him painting her. But it seemed absurd that a girl of her position——”
“It is absurd,” cut in Richmond. “Who told you this story?”