Clifford saw Mary go white again, and whiter than before, as Mr. Morton spoke; and he thought she was going to fall as she gathered the meaning of his words—gathered what, since he had first entered, had been his real conception of the relationship.
“But, dad—” began Jack in a throaty voice. “You don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t understand. The truth is—”
“Jack!” cut in Mary.
“Oh, yes, I do understand,” his father assured him. “And don’t try to shield Mary with protestations. She doesn’t need such flimsy protection.”
“Dad,” demanded the young fellow huskily, “what do you think this situation is?”
“The obvious and usual one: you’re living here together; as they always say it on the stage, she’s your mistress.”
He turned to Mary. “Jack’s a sentimentalist. But you’re a sensible woman and don’t humbug yourself by hesitating to call a thing by its right name.”
His last words were an even-toned affirmation of a commonplace, not a question. Clifford watched Mary closely: of a certainty, Life was testing her! He waited tensely for her reply, and so did Jack—and Clifford realized what vague worlds of different events hung upon the words yet within her lips.
“I am Jack’s mistress—yes,” she said, looking very straight into Mr. Morton’s eyes.
“Mary, that’s—”