Something in her tone made him look up. In a second the glass lay shattered upon the carpet. There was a stain of wine upon her dress.
“God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. “What were you doing?”
Her voice was a little hysterical. Her unnatural calm was giving way.
“It was poison—why not?” she answered. “Who is there to care and—John.”
His arms were around her. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign.
“You poor little girl!” he cried. “Forgive you, indeed. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. It is no crime, none at all. It is one of God’s laws that a woman may defend her honour, even with the shedding of blood. While you talked I was only making our plans. It was necessary to think, and think quickly.”
She was altogether hysterical now.
“But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. I asked him—to take me away.”
She saw him flinch, but he gave no sign of it in his tone.