“I love him,” she said, almost sullenly.
Sutton surveyed her in silence for a moment or so: anything out of the ordinary run of emotions struck him dumb. He had expected her to rage, to cry, to be hysterical, and end by dropping into his ready arms.
“You might have guessed,” he said at last. “Has he ever treated you as if you were his wife? Have any of us treated you as if you were his wife? You are not mistress here; the very servants see how things are; they never come to you for orders. The manager grins openly in your face.”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, thinking it all over and remembering a thousand damning incidents.
“Why,” Sutton went on, “if you had been his wife, he would have kicked Milligan out of the place long ago; he would have kicked us all out. Where have your eyes been, my dear girl? Think! Did any of those men bring their wives or sisters?”
She shook her fair, dull head: it seemed to sink lower on her breast as Sutton went fluently on:
“This flat is a bachelor establishment; he and I are the tenants. If you were his wife I shouldn’t be here; the place is only a bandbox. I’ll take you to the church where they were married to-morrow morning; you shall see the register.”
“I don’t want to see it. I know that woman is his wife. I should have known it from the first, when I saw her hanging on his arm in the Strand. She is his wife. But I? What am I?”
Sutton said:
“Do you remember the night when Milligan came here with a lady?”