"I do," declared Catherine, on due consultation with the fire. "I really do! Bob is all I have—all I want—in this world, Duncan; and it may seem a dreadful thing to say, and you mayn't believe it when I've said it, but—yes!—I'd rather he had never come home at all than come home married, at his age, and to an Indian widow, whose first husband had divorced her! I mean it, Duncan; I do indeed!"
"I am sure you do," said I. "It was just what I said to myself."
"To think of my Bob being Number Three!" murmured Catherine, with that plaintive drollery of hers which I had found irresistible in the days of old.
I was able to resist it now. "So those were the things you heard?" I remarked.
"Yes," said Catherine; "haven't you heard them?"
"I didn't need. I knew her in India years ago."
Catherine's eyes opened.
"You knew this Mrs. Lascelles?"
"Before that was her name. I have also met her original husband. If you had known him, you would be less hard on her."
Catherine's eyes were still wide open. They were rather hard eyes, after all. "Why did you not tell me you had known her, when you wrote?" she asked.