"What does that mean?"
"A great deal," says Mrs. Bethune.
"Then you can tell me a great deal. Begin—begin!" says Lady Rylton, waving her hand in her airiest style. "I guessed as much! I always hated that girl! Well—and so—— Do go on!"
"I hardly know what you expect me to say," says Mrs. Bethune coldly, and with a hatred very badly suppressed.
"You know perfectly well," says her aunt. "I wish to know how
Maurice and his wife are getting on."
"How can I answer that?" says Marian, turning upon her like one brought to bay.
It is too bitter to her, this cross-examination; it savours of a servitude that she must either endure or—starve!
"It is quite simple," says Lady Rylton. She looks at Marian with a certain delight in her eyes—the delight that tyrants know. She has this creature at her heels, and she will drag her to her death. "I am waiting," says she. "My good girl, why don't you answer? What of Maurice and his wife?"
"They are not on good terms, I think," says Mrs. Bethune sullenly.
"No? And whose fault is that?" Lady Rylton catches the tip of Marian's gown, and draws her to her. When she has made her turn, so that she can study and gloat over the rapid changes of her face, she says, "Yours?" in a light, questioning way.