Standing still, a yard beyond the threshold, Arthur said, “I beg your pardon, madam—Mrs. Peixada.”
The lady rose, turned around, faced him.
The lady was his wife.
A slight, startled smile crossed her face. “Why—Arthur—you—?” she began in atone of surprise, her eyes brightening.
But suddenly a change; a look of perplexity, followed by one of enlightenment, as if a dreadful truth had burst upon her. The blood sank from her cheeks, her lip curled, her breast fluttered—a terrible fire flashed from her eyes. She drew herself up. She was awful, but she was superb.
“Ah,” she said, “I see. So you have been prying into my secrets behind my back—you, who were too magnanimous to let me tell them to you! It was for you that Mr. Peixada bade me wait. This is the surprise he spoke of—a surprise of your contriving. You have found out who I am. I hope you are—-”
She broke off. Her voice had been very low, but had vibrated with passion. Now, the flaming, contemptuous eyes with which she covered him, spoke her mind more plainly than her tongue could.
He, upon her first rising and facing him, had started back, gasping, “Good God—you—Ruth!” Since then a chaos of emotions had held him, dumb.
But gradually he recovered himself in some measure.
His face a picture of blank amazement, “For heaven’s sake, Ruth, what does this mean?” he cried.