“You are so flattering, my dear madam, I can without difficulty perceive that you have not lived long in the world of fashion—ay, or in the world of play-houses,” said the actress.
“I am Mrs. Lewis, madam,” said the lady, and then dropping into a chair she burst into tears.
Mrs. Abington went beside the unhappy woman, and patted her on the shoulder.
“Dear child,” she said, “the thought that you are Mr. Lewis's wife should not cause you to shed a tear. You should be glad rather than sorry that you are married to a gentleman who is so highly esteemed. Your husband, Mrs. Lewis, is a great friend of mine, and I hope that his wife may become even a greater.”
“Ah—ah!” moaned the lady. “A friend? a friend? Oh, give me back my husband, woman—give me back my husband, whom you stole from me!”
She had sprung to her feet as she spoke her passionate words, and now stood with quivering, clenched hands in front of the actress.
“My good woman,” said Mrs. Abington, “you have need to calm yourself. I can assure you that I have not your husband in my keeping. Would you like to search the room? Look under the sofa—into all the cupboards.”
“I know that he left here half an hour ago—I watched him,” said Mrs. Lewis. “You watched him? Oh, fie!”
“You may make a mock of me, if you please; I expected that you would; but he is my husband, and I love him—I believe that he loved me until your witchery came over him and—oh, I am a most unhappy woman! But you will give him back to me; you have many admirers, madam; one poor man is nothing here or there to you.”
“Listen to me, my poor child.” Mrs. Abington had led her to the sofa, and sat down beside her, still holding her hand. “You have spoken some very foolish words since you came into this room. From whom have you heard that your husband was—well, was ensnared by me?”