Lily hated him at such times. She could have boxed his ears. She had enough of it, at last. One evening, she caught hold of his arm to take him away, furious that a gentleman could find a pleasure in making his wife look so ridiculous! And Trampy, more or less flattered at what he considered a fond wife’s jealousy, was turning to go, when a lady with plumes on her head and a woolly dog under her arm greeted him with:
“Hullo, old boy! Glad to see you, Trampy!”
Lily—it was a distant memory, but no matter—recognized Poland, the Parisienne, with the painted face and the violent scent. Trampy took a step backward. He expected a scene, though he owed her nothing, after all; but she did not seem angry, no. On the contrary, she looked at him with a roguish eye. She knew of Trampy’s marriage, no doubt, as she knew of his conquests, having been his victim herself.
“Hullo, old boy!” repeated Poland, sizing up Lily with an appraising glance and then fixing her eyes upon Trampy. “Still having your successes, old boy? Is this your number thirty? Thirty-six? Thirty-eight, eh?”
“What!” Lily broke in, astounded at these manners. “What number thirty-six, thirty-eight?”
“Ugh! A number in a lottery,” said Trampy, looking quite vain between those two women in love with him. “Yes, a number ... with which I drew a prize!... Why, by Jove,” he continued, addressing Poland, “this is my wife!... Lily Clifton! ... the New Zealander on Wheels.”
“Oh, yes,” said Poland to Lily. “I did hear that you ran away: tired of this, eh?”
And, tapping the back of her left hand with the palm of her right, she made the professional gesture that denotes a whipping.
“Yes, I was a bit,” said Lily, feeling rather proud than otherwise. “I’ve been through the mill, I have!”
“You’ve had your fair share, eh?” insisted Poland. “You’re not the first that has left her family to escape being whipped. You did quite right,” she concluded.