"It was to give his wife pleasure that Anson made the false step," I urged.
"Do you think she would have had the pleasure at the price? The man was vain and selfish to run any risk, to do anything that might endanger her safety—that is, her happiness and comfort."
"But suppose he knew that she loved ease and pleasure?—that he feared her anger or disdain if he did not minister to her luxuries?"
"Then he ought not to have married that kind of a woman." The hardness in her voice was matched at that moment by the coldness of her face.
"That is begging the question," I replied. "What would such a selfish woman do in such a case, if her pleasure could not be gratified?"
"You must ask that kind of woman," was her ironical answer.
I rashly felt that her castle of strength was crumbling. I ventured farther.
"I have done so."
She turned slightly toward me, yet not nervously, as I had expected.
"What did she say?"