Violet sat perfectly still in her chair. For several seconds she did not utter a syllable. Her lips were a little parted. The color seemed suddenly drawn from her face, and her eyes narrowed. One realized then the pernicious effect of cosmetics. Her blackened eyebrows were painfully apparent. The little patch of rouge was easily discernible against the pallor of her powdered skin. She was suddenly ugly. Saton, looking at her, was amazed that he could ever have brought himself to touch her lips.
“Ah!” she remarked. “I hadn’t thought of that. You want to marry some one else, eh?”
Saton nodded.
“It isn’t that I want to,” he declared, “only, as you know, I must have money. I can’t marry you without it, can I, Violet? We should only be miserable. You understand that?”
“Yes, I understand!” she answered.
She was turning one of her rings round, looking down at her hands with downcast head.
“You’re upset, Violet,” he said, soothingly. “I’m sorry. You see I can’t help myself, don’t you?”
“Oh, I suppose so!” she answered. “Who is the young lady?”
“A Miss Lois Champneyes,” Saton said. “She is a ward of a Mr. Henry Rochester, who has been my enemy all along. It is he, I believe, who has stirred up these detectives to keep watching us.”