“It was not well planned,” Aunt Selina retorted tartly. “The idea was good, but the young person who was playing the part of Mrs. Wilson—overacted.”
“Oh, come, Aunt Selina,” Jim protested, “Kit was coaxed and cajoled into this thing. Give me fits if you like; I deserve all I get. But let Kit alone—she did it for me.”
Bella looked over at me and smiled nastily.
“I would stop doing things for Jim, Kit,” she said. “It is SO unprofitable.”
But Mr. Harbison harked back to Aunt Selina’s speech.
“PLAYING the part of Mrs. Wilson!” he repeated. “Do you mean—?”
“Exactly. Playing the part. She is not Mrs. Wilson. It seems that that honor belonged at one time to Miss Knowles. I believe such things are not unknown in New York, only why in the name of sense does a man want to divorce a woman and then meet her at two o’clock in the morning to kiss the place where his own wedding ring used to rest?”
Jim fidgeted. Bella was having spasms of mirth to herself, but the Harbison man did not smile. He stood for a moment looking at the fire; then he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his dressing gown, and stalked over to me. He did not care that the others were watching and listening.
“Is it true?” he demanded, staring down at me. “You are NOT Mrs. Wilson? You are not married at all? All that about being neglected—and loathing HIM, and all that on the roof—there was no foundation of truth?”
I could only shake my head without looking up. There was no defense to be made. Oh, I deserved the scorn in his voice.