Serle’s jaw dropped. “How odd! What did she do?”
“Oh, she painted a little, just enough to make pin-money and to annoy her husband. You see, it was this way. She did not care to take money from a man she loathed.”
“Loathed!”
“I said—loathed. She literally loathed him. She told me so.”
“Why didn’t she leave him sooner? Besides, a few moments ago you said he never offered her money. Now, she loathed him so she wouldn’t take any——”
“Ah! That’s not in my fable,” tartly answered Marden. Again he turned gloomy and tapped nervously on the table.
The afternoon waned. A soft light slipped through the high curtained windows and modulated into glancing semitones over the richly decorated apartment. Several men entered—the vanguard of the five-o’clock brigade of absintheurs. Serle became nervous. What if!—But he determined to take the chance of seeing some imbecile who might salute him by name. He leaned forward on his folded arms and asked with a show of concern:
“And what became of your charming client?”
“My charming—Oh! Why, she married and settled down.”
“At last! Is she happy?”