"Do you remember my warning you that people would talk if you were intimate with that man?" he said.
"Perfectly."
"You have chosen to disregard my warning. The consequence is that people have begun to talk."
Marie got up.
"Who, and where?" she said, facing him.
"It does not matter who. Where? In the clubs. 'So the Snowflake has melted. I saw her driving with the melter.' I heard that said this afternoon."
The rain began to fall heavily, and a blue scribble of light rent the sky. Marie did not reply, but went inside, followed by her husband. The room was very dark, and each could see no more than the form of the other. In the gloom her answer came—very cool and crisp, an extraordinary contrast to the hot, thick darkness.
"And you tell this to me," she asked—"to me?"
"It concerns you, does it not?"
"As much as that which the gutter press says of the King concerns the King. And you knew it, Jack."