Sir Leslie left the garden without another word. Blanche held her book before her face until he had disappeared. Then it slipped from her fingers. She looked hard into a cluster of roses, and she saw only two figures—always the same figures. Her eyes were set, her face was wan and old.
"The other woman!" she murmured to herself. "That is what I am. And I can't live up to it. I ought to take poison, or get run over or something, and I know very well I shan't. Bother the man! Why couldn't he leave me alone?"
After dinner that evening she accepted her husband's nightly invitation and walked with him for a little while. The others followed.
"How much longer can you stay away from England, Lawrence?" she asked him.
"Oh—a fortnight, I should think," he answered. "I am not tied to any particular date. You like it here, I hope?"
"Immensely! Are—our friends going to remain?"
"I haven't heard them say anything about moving on yet," he answered.
"Are you in love with the Duchess still, Lawrence?"
"Am I—Blanche!"
"Don't be angry! You made a mistake once, you know. Don't make another. I'm not a jealous woman, and I don't ask much from you, but I'm your wife. That's all!"