She looked up and laughed—just in the way that Mrs. Patrick Campbell laughs in “Magda” when the man makes the suggestion about the child. Priscilla’s rendering of that laugh made her visitor feel angry. He was not accustomed to be laughed at—certainly not to his face. He took a step toward her in a way that suggested scarcely curbed indignation.
“Priscilla,” he cried, “have you realized what you are doing? Have you realized what you are—what you must be called so long as you remain in this house?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I am Mr. Wingfield’s wife, and I am called Mrs. Wingfield by all in this house, and I must be called so by everyone who visits at this house!”
“You are not his wife—you know that you are not his wife,” said Mr. Possnett, vehemently.
“I know that I am his wife, Mr. Possnett,” she replied with irritating gentleness. “I married him in accordance with the law of the land.”
“But you were already married—that you have found out; so your marriage was no marriage.”
“I agree with you—my marriage with Marcus Blaydon was no marriage.”
“It was a marriage, celebrated in the house of God, by a priest of God, that made it a marriage—sacred; and yet you——”
“Sacred? Sacred? Mr. Possnett, do not be so foolish, I beg of you. Don’t be so—so profane. Surely the sacredness of marriage does not begin and end with the form of words spoken in the church. Surely it is on account of its spiritual impulses that a marriage, the foundation of which is love, is sacred. A marriage is made sacred by the existence of a mutual love, and by that only. Is not that the truth?”
“I have not come here to-day to discuss with you any quibble, Priscilla. You know that you can legally have but one husband and——”