That he had been unfaithful she was certain; his attitude toward the woman spoke of nothing else. It was an old entanglement, purged of all piquancy, all intensity. It had become a matter of course.
“You don’t suppose I would go out and dine alone? Steak! I never touch it.”
“You never do,” he said ponderingly; then added, “but that was, no doubt, part of your devilish, ingenious scheming, to throw dust in my eyes.”
“I don’t understand, I really don’t,” she persisted, with the firmness and absolute blankness of the deeply-committed liar. “Be a little more clear.”
“You were there. I saw you,” he stormed, moving his hands about nervously. “Why! You remember looking at me. You remember—her?”
“Her?”
“The woman with me. She was dressed in brown.”
“I hate brown. What woman?”
“You haven’t the impudence to stick to it that you weren’t there—with a rump steak and a bottle of wine?”
“It doesn’t sound at all inviting—at all like me. My dear boy!” She leapt up, and tremblingly hung her arms about his stubborn neck. “It was a delusion—you saw my double.”