“I want to know,” she said bluntly, “because I’m Barty Leadenhall’s wife.”
There was a long silence. The sun had vanished now, and the dusty road before them was somber under the deepening shadow of the trees. The sky was pallid, the world was without light or color, and a terrible oppression had suddenly descended upon Jacqueline.
She no longer saw this episode as a gay little comedy. It was very close to tragedy. Her high spirits of the afternoon seemed to her now only heartless flippancy, tarnishing the dignity of her wifehood.
“Then you’re the friend he went away with?” asked Stafford.
“Yes,” she answered.
“And—did you send him back to me?”
Her face flushed.
“He didn’t need sending,” she said. “He wanted to go. He—”
“I see!” said Stafford, and again he was silent for a long time. “I think you’d better come back with me,” he said at last.
“But—you mean—now?” cried Jacqueline. “I don’t see how—”