Diana flushed.
"You've no right to talk like that, Olga, even in jest," she said, with a little touch of matronly dignity that sat rather quaintly and sweetly upon her. "I know you don't like Max—never have liked him—but please recollect that you're speaking of my husband."
"You misunderstand me," replied the Russian, coolly, as she drew on her gloves. "I don't dislike him; but I do think he ought to be perfectly frank with you. As you say, he is your husband"—pointedly.
"Perfectly frank with me?"
Miss Lermontof nodded.
"Yes."
"He has been," affirmed Diana.
"Has he, indeed? Have you ever asked him"—she paused significantly—"who he is?"
"Who he is?" Diana felt her heart contract. What new mystery was this at which the other was hinting?
"Who he is?" she repeated. "Why—why—what do you mean?"