“My dear girl, you are still on the sunny side of eighteen, and you know very little of this world. Less than you think. But you will learn. Before you write all those novels we have talked about, you will have to learn. And that’s one point—” He hesitated. “You started and blushed when the man at breakfast called you Ma’am. You thought it a funny mistake, but you did not say anything because he was young and nervous—and besides, the thought of being my wife offended your modesty. You didn’t care to notice it. But—you see; I gave your name as Mrs. Beaumont.” He looked almost apologetic, in spite of his cynical pose. “Mrs. Beaumont,” he repeated, pulling his flaxen moustache and watching the effect.
She looked into his eyes speechless. “I am learning fast,” she said slowly, at last.
He thought the time had come for an emotional attack. “Jessie,” he said, with a sudden change of voice, “I know all this is mean, is villanous. But do you think that I have done all this scheming, all this subterfuge, for any other object—”
She did not seem to listen to his words. “I shall ride home,” she said abruptly.
“To her?”
She winced.
“Just think,” said he, “what she could say to you after this.”
“Anyhow, I shall leave you now.”
“Yes? And go—”
“Go somewhere to earn my living, to be a free woman, to live without conventionality—”