"Then why on earth did she marry the other fellow?"
"Because Furny couldn't marry her. And he wouldn't, either. That's not his way."
"I know it's not his way. And if Viveash took steps, what then?"
"Then perhaps—he'd have to."
"Good Lord——"
"Oh, it isn't a deep-laid plan."
"I never said it was."
He didn't think it. Marriages had been made at Amberley, and divorces, too; not by any plan of Fanny's, but by the risks she took. Seeing the dangerous way she mixed things, he didn't, he couldn't suspect her of a plan, but he did suspect her of an unholy joy in the prospect of possible explosions.
"Of course," she said, reverting to her vision, "of course he'd have to."
She looked at Straker with eyes where mischief danced a fling. It was clear that in that moment she saw Laurence Furnival the profane, Furnival the scorner of marriage, caught and tied: punished (she scented in ecstasy the delicate irony of it), so beautifully punished there where he had sinned.