“You speak as though the rest of us,” she remarked, “were qualified to take orders in wickedness.”
He helped himself to more brandy.
“Think back,” he said. “Think of those days in New York, the life we led, the wild things we did week after week, month after month, the same eternal round of turning night into day, of struggling everywhere to find new pleasures, pulling vice to pieces like children trying to find the inside of their playthings.”
“I don't like your mood in the least,” she interrupted.
He drummed for a moment upon the tablecloth with his fingers.
“We were talking of Beatrice. You don't even know where she is now, then?”
“I have no idea,” Elizabeth declared.
“She was with you for long in Cornwall?” he asked.
Elizabeth toyed with her wineglass for a minute.
“She was there about a month,” she admitted.