She remained silent, only looked at me. I am not sure but an idea struck me that the silence was strange. I could never tell afterwards whether or not it so struck me then.
"I said the cases were somewhat parallel," she slowly observed.
"Scarcely, Mrs. Penn. Mr. Chandos at least does not deceive me. He says he cannot marry. His life is given up to sorrow."
"Given up to sorrow? He says that, does he? Anne, I have half a mind to tell you the truth. What is his sorrow, compared to that of poor Mrs. Chandos. I pity her."
"Who is Mrs. Chandos?" I interrupted, seizing on the opportunity to inquire on the subject that remained a puzzle, and thinking this kind woman might satisfy me. "They call her Lady Chandos's daughter-in-law, but I cannot see how she can be so."
"Mrs. Chandos was once Miss Ethel Wynne."
"But who is her husband?"
"Ah, you may well ask. It is curious though that you should."
Was it the stress on the word "you?"—was it that her face was so suggestive as it gazed into mine?—or was it that the previous vague idea was growing into life? I knew not; I never have known. I only felt that I turned sick with an undefined doubt and dread as I waited for Mrs. Penn's answer. She was a full minute, looking into my whitening face, before she gave it.
"My poor stricken lamb! Has it never struck you who it might be? Speak."