As Beatrice withdrew leaning on the arm of Idris and blushing at some compliment of his, Lorelie glanced after them with a touch of envy in her eyes. Her days for receiving such attentions were over: her husband had ceased to be her lover. She could not avoid contrasting the appearance of the two men—Ivar's pallid face and languid air with Idris' healthful bronzed complexion and splendid physique. There was a difference of ten years in their ages: and though Ivar was scarcely past twenty, his face bore signs of dissipation—signs which his wife perceived with surprise and sorrow.
No sooner were Idris and Beatrice out of earshot than Ivar turned a frowning countenance upon his wife.
"Why have you told them of our marriage?"
"It was necessary, Ivar."
As she recalled the occasion of its disclosure a faint colour tinged her cheek; and Ivar, though not usually a quick-witted person, immediately suspected the cause.
"Necessitated by that fellow's making love to you, I presume?" he said, eyeing her keenly.
"Ivar," she answered quietly, evading his question, "so long as men think me free——"
"Free! that's a good word."
"So long as I am supposed to be unmarried," she continued, correcting her expression, "so long shall I be liable to receive attentions from other men. You can easily remedy this by making our marriage known."