“It’s just the sort of damnable vulgarity she’s capable of! It’s loathsome—it’s monstrous—”
His wife, without looking up, answered gravely, “I thought so too. It was for that reason I didn’t go. But you must remember that very few people feel about Mrs. Aubyn as you do—”
Glennard managed to set down his cup with a steady hand, but the room swung round with him and he dropped into the nearest chair. “As I do?” he repeated.
“I mean that very few people knew her when she lived in New York. To most of the women who went to the reading she was a mere name, too remote to have any personality. With me, of course, it was different—”
Glennard gave her a startled look. “Different? Why different?”
“Since you were her friend—”
“Her friend!” He stood up impatiently. “You speak as if she had had only one—the most famous woman of her day!” He moved vaguely about the room, bending down to look at some books on the table. “I hope,” he added, “you didn’t give that as a reason, by the way?”
“A reason?”
“For not going. A woman who gives reasons for getting out of social obligations is sure to make herself unpopular or ridiculous.
The words were uncalculated; but in an instant he saw that they had strangely bridged the distance between his wife and himself. He felt her close on him, like a panting foe; and her answer was a flash that showed the hand on the trigger.