Something is tearing at his breast. Her deliberate, her most cruel attack on Tita has touched him to the quick.
"Don't be frightened!" says Mrs. Bethune, bursting out laughing.
"What are you thinking of—your reputation?"
"No!"
Manlike, he refrains from the obvious return. But she, in her mad frenzy of despair and anger, supplies it.
"Mine, then? It is not worth a thought, eh? Who cares for me? Whether I sink with the vile, or swim with the good? No! I'll tell you what you are thinking of, Maurice." She lays her hand upon her throat quickly, as if stifling, yet laughs gaily. "You are thinking that that little idiot may hear of my being here, and that she will make a fuss about it—all underbred people love a fuss—and that——"
She would have gone on, but Rylton has given up his neutral position on the hearthrug—he has made one step forward, his face dark with passion.
"Not another word!" says he in a sharp, imperious tone. "Not another word about—MY WIFE!"
The last two words explain all. Mrs. Bethune stand still, as if struck to the heart.
For a full minute she so stands, and then—"You are right. I should not be here," says she. She turns, and rests her eyes steadily on him. "So that is my fault," says she, "that you love—her!"
Shame holds him silent.