“I agree,” he said, thrusting the ring-box back into his pocket, “only make it short, will you, little girl?”
“Yes, I will,” she promised, without smiling. “I merely said that mother and Mrs. Mallaby had discussed you and me, and our marriage, and that Mrs. Mallaby had said some things about you.”
“Well, lots of people do that,” he smiled.
“Yes––but they haven’t said just this thing, Nat.”
“What was that?”
“I’m going to let you think. Just suppose that Mrs. Mallaby hated you very much and wanted to do you harm. What would she tell my mother?”
The girl, pale and on the verge of an hysterical outburst, watched his face out of her mask of self-control.
The blood beneath his tan receded and was replaced by a sickly greenish hue. That flash had brought its memory––a memory that had lain buried beneath the events of his later life. Did she know? How could she know?
To the girl watching him there was confirmation enough. She was suddenly filled with inexpressible distaste for this man who had in days past smothered her with caresses and dinned into her ears speeches concerning a passion that he called love.