"Oh, she ought to have told you! It was cruel of her! She ought to have told you. But you have not written to her for two or three weeks—as far as I know. . . ."
"Married? Rita?"
"Yes, this morning, and Mr. Podley gave her away. But I have a letter for you, Mr. Lothian. Rita asked me to post it. She gave it me in bed this morning, before I dressed her for her marriage. Of course she didn't know that you were going to be in town. I will give it to you now."
She gave him the letter.
His hands took it with a mechanical gesture, though he made a little bow of thanks.
Underneath the heavy fur coat, the man's body was absolutely rippling up and down—it was horrible.
The eyelids fell again. The voice became sleepy, childish almost.
. . . "But I have come to marry Rita!"
Wog became indignant. "Mr. Lothian," she said, "you ought not to speak like that before me. How could you have married Rita. You are married. Please don't even hint at such things."
"How stupid you are, Wog," he said, as if he had known her for years; in much the same sort of voice that Rita would have said it. "My wife's dead, dead and buried. . . . I thought you would both have known. . . ."