Ishbel smiled into those eyes that always reminded her of shoe buttons, and said sweetly, “I was horrid, of course, last night —”
“You were. And it was extremely unpleasant for me at the ball. Nobody addressed me except to ask where you were. I felt like a keeper minus his performing bear.” His tone was not without bitterness.
“I am so sorry. But I could not go. I wanted to think.”
“Think? Why on earth should you think? You have nothing to think about; merely to spend money and look beautiful.”
Ishbel smiled again, showing her dimples. There was not an edge of her inflexible will visible in the beautiful hazel eyes that she turned full upon him. “Well, the fact remains that I did think. And this is the result: I wish to earn my living.”
His jaw dropped. He thought she had lost her mind.
“It is quite true, and I mean to do it. I find I don’t like living on any one. We’ve never pretended to love each other. If we did—well, I think I should have felt the same way a little later. As it is, I don’t find it nice, living on you —”
“You’re my wife!” thundered Mr. Jones. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ve no right to be your wife—”
“You’ve been a damned long time finding it out—”