“You mean—Peter?” he nodded.
“Peter? No, my husband, Claude. He knows everything!” dramatically.
“Is he ... an editor?”
He was talking foolishly: nobody knew that better than Gordon; but the works were beginning to slow down again. And then she came to him and dropped both her hands on his arm.
“You want me to stay here, don’t you? You won’t turn me out ...? He followed me, but I slipped him.”
“Stay here?” Gordon hardly recognised his own voice. “Are you mad?”
She looked at him suspiciously.
“Are you married?”
“No.” And then a flashing inspiration. “Yes.”
“Yes-no,” she said impatiently. “What are you—divorced?”