Gregory was hotly indignant. "Lucy, if that is meant as an insinuation against—"
Mrs. Gregory raised her hand compellingly. "Do not speak any name," she said, looking at him steadily. "I can endure much," she went on, in a milder tone, finding him silent; "I often wonder if many women could endure as silently—but there must never be a name mentioned between us."
Her manner was so unwontedly final, that he stood looking at her, not knowing how to resume the pressing subject of his past. They were in that same silent attitude when Grace Noir came in from the hall.
Grace turned up the lights, and then—"Oh!" It was impossible to prevent an unpleasant compression of the mouth at discovering Gregory so near his wife. "Am I in the way? I am looking for company, and I heard the door-bell—please excuse me!" she added, biting off the words.
"Of course you are not in the way," Gregory returned desperately. "Company, you say? And you heard the door-bell—is Bob Clinton—" He grew white. "My eyes are bad, for some reason," he muttered, and switched off the lights again.
"How very dark you have it in here!" said Grace reprovingly. "Of course Mr. Clinton has been shown in the back-parlor, where it is light. I will go to him there, and leave you two—" she paused irresolutely, but neither spoke.
Grace had no sooner gone than Gregory with an effort found his voice. "Lucy, my conscience has tormented me until it will not let me rest— about you. It's your right to know something more about my life than I have ever told—"
"Right in there," said the maid's voice, from the hall, and Abbott
Ashton and Robert Clinton entered the half-light.
While Robert was greeting Mrs. Gregory with exaggerated pleasure, in order to escape facing her husband, Abbott spoke to the other with an odd sense of meanness, as if he partook, by mere nearness, of the other's cowardice. "I wish to speak to you for a few minutes, Mr. Gregory."
Gregory, like an animal brought to bay, said, "I suppose you've some excuse about playing cards with Fran."