"You can't," she affirmed abruptly. "You can't—ever. He'll never forgive you as long as he lives."
"Perhaps not," agreed Anthony miserably. "Still—I might possibly square myself by some sort of reformation and all that sort of thing—"
"He looked sick," she interrupted, "pale as flour."
"He is sick. I told you that three months ago."
"I wish he'd died last week!" she said petulantly. "Inconsiderate old fool!"
Neither of them laughed.
"But just let me say," she added quietly, "the next time I see you acting with any woman like you did with Rachael Barnes last night, I'll leave you—just—like—that! I'm simply not going to stand it!"
Anthony quailed.
"Oh, don't be absurd," he protested. "You know there's no woman in the world for me except you—none, dearest."
His attempt at a tender note failed miserably—the more imminent danger stalked back into the foreground.