Jack sat down in a chair, his back to what light there was. To her he was almost invisible except for the glowing spark of his cigarette, which, as he drew breath, faintly illuminated his mouth.
"For a woman of the world," he said, "you are more ignorant than I should have thought possible. Who are the women who are talked about at the clubs? Half a dozen names occur to you, as they do to me. Do you like being the seventh?"
Again there was silence, broken first by a sullen roar of thunder, then by Marie's voice.
"I want to ask you one question, Jack," she said. "Do you not know—you yourself—that to couple my name with that of any man except you, is to utter a foul and baseless calumny?"
"That is not the point," said he. "The point is that your name has so been coupled."
"Do you not know it?" she repeated.
Again there was silence. The devil, probably, would have betted on Jack's saying "No." If so, he would have lost his money.
"Yes, I know it," he replied; and his tattered flag of honour waved again.
"Then, how dare you repeat such a thing to me?" said Marie, still in the same unnaturally even voice. "For you seem to forget one thing, Jack, and that is that I am your wife!"
"It is exactly that which I remember," he said.