“Yes,” she answered.
“Serve him right,” I exclaimed, “and his wife too.” She was a pretty, bright-eyed little woman, my American friend, and I wished to ingratiate myself. “A woman who would marry such a man, knowing what she must have known of him, is sure to make him wretched, and we may trust him to be a curse to her.”
My friend seemed inclined to defend him.
“I think he is greatly improved,” she argued.
“Nonsense!” I returned, “a man never improves. Once a villain, always a villain.”
“Oh, hush!” she pleaded, “you mustn’t call him that.”
“Why not?” I answered. “I have heard you call him a villain yourself.”
“It was wrong of me,” she said, flushing. “I’m afraid he was not the only one to be blamed; we were both foolish in those days, but I think we have both learned a lesson.”
I remained silent, waiting for the necessary explanation.
“You had better come and see him for yourself,” she added, with a little laugh; “to tell the truth, I am the woman who has married him. Tuesday is my day, Number 2, K— Mansions,” and she ran off, leaving me staring after her.