By and by the Duke's head appeared above the wall.
"I suppose," he said, "now that you know the worst, you will tell me this—when is Mr. Slewer going to call?"
She spoke over her shoulder, a convenient chrysanthemum with a pathetic droop claiming her attention.
"I know nothing of Mr. Slewer's plans," said she distantly.
It was such a long time before he spoke again that she thought he must have gone away, and she ventured a swift glance at the wall.
But he was still there with his mocking eyes fixed on hers.
"Perhaps we shall see him at the concert?" he suggested, "sitting in the front row with his tragic and accusing eyes reproaching me?"
"How can you jest?"—she turned on him in a fury—"how can you turn this terrible wrong into a subject for amusement? Surely you are not completely lost to shame."
He rested his elbow on the top of the wall and dropped his chin between his hands. When he spoke, it was less to her than to himself.
"Ran away with his wife, eh? Come, that's not so bad, but Bill couldn't have thought of that himself. He's got a scar along the side of his head—did you notice that Miss Terrill? No? Well, I did that," he said complacently. "Yet Bill didn't mention it, that's his forgiving nature. Did he tell you I jailed him for promiscuous shooting? Well, I did, and when the governor revised the sentence of death passed upon him, I organized a lynching party to settle with Bill for keeps.