“There are certain stipulations which I must make in self-defence,” went on Paul. “I must ask you to cease all communication of whatever nature with the Baron de Chauxville. I am not jealous of him—now. I do not know why.”
He paused, as if wondering what the meaning of this might be. Etta knew it. The knowledge was part of her punishment.
“But,” continued her husband. “I am not going to sacrifice the name my mother bore to the vanity of a French coxcomb. You will be kind enough to avoid all society where it is likely that you should meet him. If you disregard my desires in this matter, I shall be compelled to take means to enforce them.”
“What means?”
“I shall reduce your allowance.”
Their eyes met, and perhaps that was the bitterest moment in Etta’s life. Dead things are better put out of sight at once. Etta felt that Paul’s dead love would grin at her in every sovereign of the allowance which was to be hers. She would never get away from it; she could never shake off its memory.
“Am I to live alone?” asked Etta, suddenly finding her voice.
“That is as you like,” answered Paul, perhaps purposely misunderstanding her. “You are at liberty to have any friend or companion you wish. Perhaps—your cousin.”
“Maggie?”
“Yes,” answered Paul. For the first time since he had entered the room his eyes were averted from Etta’s face.