A queer expression of distaste crossed her white face. She remembered. There had been a quarrel between her and Edred—one of the usual sharp disputes. She had reproached him for bringing only men to the flat. She remembered her quick, foaming flood of reproach and invective in answer to his cold sneers. She remembered that when she stopped, panting for breath, he had said:
“Well, is that all? Good Heavens! how you women can jaw!”
That night Milligan had brought Lady Milligan with him to dinner. When they had gone Edred asked her, with an ugly look, if she were satisfied now. “What more did she want?”
Lady Milligan! A dark young girl, with a tightly-curled fringe like a door mat, a half dirty blouse, red hands. She remembered.
“Yes, Lady Milligan,” she said to Sutton. “A vulgar woman; but what could one expect? She used to serve in a tobacconist’s shop.”
Sutton laughed.
“Lady Milligan,” he said, “is nearly fifty; a very religious, proper woman. Do you understand?”
“Oh!” she breathed, seeming to collapse with this added indignity of Edred’s. “Yes. I understand. Spare me any more confirming proofs.”
She hid her face in the sofa-cushions, her shame choking her. Sutton put his hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t be so upset,” he said, with a pompous, condescending attempt at comfort. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t help it. It will be all right. I’ll marry you myself. There shall be no hanky-panky this time.”