Tavernake, in whom the vanity was not yet born, missed wholly the significance of her smile, her trifling hesitation.
“All that,” he declared, “is no reason why you should have told Mr. Dowling that your husband was a millionaire and had given you carte blanche about taking a house.”
“Did I mention—my husband?”
“Distinctly,” he assured her.
For the first time she had faltered in her speech. Tavernake felt that she herself was shaken by some emotion. Her eyes for a moment were strangely-lit; something had come into her face which he did not understand. Then it passed. The delightful smile, half deprecating, half appealing, once more parted her lips; the gleam of horror no longer shone in her blue eyes.
“I am always so foolish about money,” she declared, “so ignorant that I never know how I stand, but really I think that I have plenty, and a hundred or two more or less for rent didn't seem to matter much.”
It was a point of view, this, which Tavernake utterly failed to comprehend. He looked at her in surprise.
“I suppose,” he protested, “you know how much a year you have to live on?”
She shook her head.
“It seems to vary all the time,” she sighed. “There are so many complications.”