"Then, by Heaven, I will not! There is but one way by which you can ever leave this room, whose existence is known to no human being but Mima, myself, and you."
She saw him grow deathly pale to the roots of his hair, as he asked, with pretended coolness:
"And that way, my darling jailer?"
With something like a blush struggling through the cosmetics that covered her face, she replied firmly, although in a low voice:
"As my husband."
There was an awkward silence; the man was blushing for her; the dark-red flush went up to the roots of his hair; she saw it, and bit her lips. At last he said, with cool disdain:
"You have already a husband in an insane asylum."
She interrupted, eagerly:
"No, no—not my husband. I am free—that is, I was divorced by law from him years ago."
She came nearer; she flung herself, with a rustle of silk and heavy waft of patchouli, down by his side on the sofa. Looking up into his face with burning eyes, she exclaimed, wildly: