She nearly struck him for that free, unctuous laugh. She would have whisked up and locked herself in her own room—but she couldn’t. Even a mean man is commanding in moments of tremendous excitement. It was obvious that Sutton was laboring to say something of moment; she was impelled to sit still and let him say it.
“I don’t know where to begin,” he said helplessly, winding his watch-chain round his finger.
“If it is business,” she said, suddenly becoming inspired with the idea that there was some financial difficulty, and he wished to confide in her, to break it to her, “don’t tell me. I shall not understand.”
“I never talk business with a woman,” he returned with a sneer.
“Oh! Then what do you talk?”
“The one thing of any interest. You know what—but you like to tease me, you won’t help me out. It’s unkind to a poor beggar,” he said, with a fearful attempt at pathos and tenderness.
Then she knew instantly what was coming, knew what had transformed him. She was consumed with shame, with apprehension—but she could not rise from that paralyzing lounge, could not move one step toward the door. Like a true woman, hypocritically obtuse to the very last, she said:
“I haven’t the least idea——”
He grabbed at her hands, held them desperately.
“You know; you’ve known all along. It’s been a pretty game, hasn’t it? You thought I didn’t see the nods you gave me over the dinner-table, the cunning little winks behind his back.”