“Sometimes he’s quite the same; sometimes he’s gay—he’s too gay. And then ...” She looked up. “He sits and thinks; he’ll sit silent for hours. He’s not spoken a word all the morning. And then suddenly ... he’ll shudder. And his eyes aren’t the same; they aren’t the same, you understand. It’s as if he were afraid. Afraid! He cowers into a corner. What is it, Robert? You know.”
Grimshaw was silent, pondering.
“Tell me!” she said. “You shall tell me; you know. Is it religious mania?”
Grimshaw shook his head.
“No, I don’t think it can be religious mania.” He added: “It might be hypochondria—sheer anxiety about his health. He was always like that.”
“No,” she said, “he hasn’t been near a doctor. It can’t be that.” She looked up at him with a little, birdlike gaze. “I know what it is,” she said, “it’s another woman.”
Robert Grimshaw threw up his hands that were still gloved.
“You aren’t surprised,” she said, and there was about her whole figure an air of a little and tender calmness. “It’s no good your feigning surprise. I am sure you know all about it. Oh, I know what men are, and women. I have been a nursery governess, you know. Isn’t it true that there was another woman?” and, at his hesitation, she pleaded: “Tell me the truth, there was!”
“Well, there was,” he said.
“And it was Etta Stackpole,” she accused him.