"Where does she write from?"
"From her ordinary address—why not? I think this is rather too bad of you. Why didn't you speak, instead of writhing about and sputtering? That kind of thing is all very well—sense of honour and all that—but it meant that I was being taken in. Between friends—hang it! Of course I have done with her. I shall write at once. It's amazing; it took away my breath. No doubt, though she doesn't say it, it was from you that she came to know of me. She began with a lie. And who the devil could have thought it! Her face—her way of talking! This will cut me up awfully. Of course, I'm sorry for you, too, but it was your plain duty to let me know what sort of a woman I had got hold of. Nay, it's she that has got hold of me, confound her! I don't feel myself! I'm thoroughly knocked over!"
Hilliard began humming an air. He crossed the room and sat down.
"Have you seen her since that Saturday?"
"No; she has made excuses, and I guessed something was wrong. What has been going on? You have seen her?"
"Of course."
Narramore glared.
"It's devilish underhand behaviour! Look here, old fellow, we're nut going to quarrel. No woman is worth a quarrel between two old friends. But just speak out—can't you? What did you mean by keeping it from me?"
"It meant that I had nothing to say," Hilliard replied, through his moustache.
"You kept silence out of spite, then? You said to yourself, 'Let him marry her and find out afterwards what she really is!'"