"I might have met him at her house a hundred times, but, I assure you, Mrs. Majendie, that, since his marriage, I have not met him more than twice, anywhere. The first time was at the Hannays'. You were there. You saw all that passed between us."
"Well?"
"The second time was at the Hannays', too. Mrs. Hannay was with us all the time. What do you suppose he talked to me about? His child. He talked about nothing else."
"I suppose," said Mrs. Majendie coldly, "there was nothing else to talk about."
"No—but it was so dear and naïf of him." She pondered on his naïveté with down-dropped eyes whose lids sheltered the irresponsibly hilarious blue.
"He talked about his child—your child—to me. I hadn't seen him for two years, and that's all he could talk about. I had to sit and listen to that."
"It wouldn't hurt you, Lady Cayley."
"It didn't—and I'm sure the little girl is charming—only—it was so delicious of your husband, don't you see?"
Her face curled all over with its soft and sensual smile.
"If we'd been two babes unborn there couldn't have been a more innocent conversation."