"Is what true, my dear Mrs. John?" he said carelessly.
"Is this true that George Weston tells me?" she cried, laying her thin hand upon his shoulder. Her wasted fingers closed involuntarily upon the collar of his coat, her lips contracted into a ghastly smile, and a sudden fire kindled in her eyes. A strange sensation awoke in the tips of those tightening fingers, and thrilled through every vein of the woman's body,––such a horrible thrill as vibrates along the nerves of a monomaniac, when the sight of a dreadful terror in his victim's face first arouses the murderous impulse in his breast.
Paul's face whitened as he felt the thin finger–points tightening upon his neck. He was afraid of Olivia.
"My dear Mrs. John, what is it you want of me?" he said hastily. "Pray do not be violent."
"I am not violent."
She dropped her hand from his breast. It was true, she was not violent. Her voice was low; her hand fell loosely by her side. But Paul was frightened of her, nevertheless; for he saw that if she was not violent, she was something worse––she was dangerous.
"Did George Weston tell me the truth just now?" she said.
Paul bit his nether–lip savagely. George Weston had tricked him, then, after all, and had communicated with this woman. But what of that? She would scarcely be likely to trouble herself about this business of Edward Arundel's marriage. She must be past any such folly as that. She would not dare to interfere in the matter. She could not.
"Is it true?" she said; "is it? Is it true that Edward Arundel is going to be married to–morrow?"
She waited, looking with fixed, widely–opened eyes at Paul's face.