Sir Leslie was a little staggered.
"You take it very coolly," he remarked.
"Why not? The Duchess is too proud a woman to give herself away, and my husband—belongs to me!"
"You haven't any idea of taking poison, or anything of that sort, I suppose, have you?" he inquired. "The other woman nearly always does that."
"Not in real life," Blanche answered, composedly. "Besides, I'm not the other woman—I'm the one. The Duchess is the other!"
"But your husband—"
"Do you know, I should prefer not to discuss my husband—with you," Blanche said, calmly, taking up her book. "He is not the sort of man you would be at all likely to understand. If you want a rich wife why don't you propose to Clara Mannering? I suppose you knew that some unheard-of aunt had left her fifty thousand pounds?"
Sir Leslie rose to his feet.
"I don't fancy that you and I are very sympathetic this afternoon," he remarked. "I will go and see if any one has returned."
"Do," she answered. "I shall miss you, of course, but my book is positively absorbing, and I am dying to go on with it."