Regina explained, and Alfred mixed her a little whisky-and-soda, and Julia said she would go to bed, for she was dead beat, and so on; and still Regina said nothing beyond throwing out a feeler in order that her husband might confide anything to her if he wished to do so.
“You got through your business, Alfred?”
“Yes—yes, yes.”
“And brought it to a successful issue?”
“Well—I can’t exactly say that, but I have put things in train.” He gave a short angry sigh, as if he were vexed with himself and the world in general.
It was on the tip of Regina’s tongue to ask where he had dined. Perhaps if she had done so an explanation would have taken place between them and her mind have been set at rest; but a certain delicacy overcame her as if she, in dining at the Trocadero, without giving her husband due warning of the fact, had committed an indiscretion. So she simulated a fatigue which she was far from feeling and she went off to bed, followed two minutes later by Alfred, who declared himself to be tired out, and it was not until Regina found herself in bed in the dark, with her husband sleeping the sleep of the—shall we say?—just, beside her that she gave herself up to reviewing the situation. Well, “hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” It may be so, but certain it is that Regina’s heart was very sore and sorry that night. Hope was deferred no longer, uncertainty had become certainty; she knew the worst! She had seen the hussy! It was beyond her understanding to know why Alfred could have allowed himself to be entangled by such a creature—so common, attractive only with a common attractiveness, pretty only in a common type of prettiness; young, yet not blooming. He had not looked happy; he sighed in his sleep.
“What shall I do?” said Regina to herself. “Tell him? No, no; never, never own for one instant that I have the smallest knowledge or suspicion that my husband is shared by a creature like that.”
She lay awake for hours during that night, and when the first faint streaks of morning came struggling in at the window, she had come to the conclusion that he was unhappy in that relationship, that he had been entangled and that freedom would be infinitely precious to him.
“I must work hard at my task of supplanting such a person,” she told herself, “I must be wary and wily and sweet, and must make myself attractive. Alfred has been most attentive to me since I went to Madame d’Estelle, and since Clementine made my hats for me and Florence rearranged my hair. I must be wary and patient, always wary and patient, give him no excuse for wanting to go away from home, give him no sense of rest in any other place than under his own roof. It will not be easy—no, it will be most difficult. Poor fellow! he’s so set on keeping faith with me that he even resents any little thing that I do to change myself. I hate that woman! Yes, I have never hated anyone in my life as I hate that woman!”