"Say what?" said Mr. Grubb, carelessly.
"That play to an incredible extent is carried on there. And that Adela has been induced to join in it."
His assumed indifference was forgotten now, and the carpet might have been patternless for all he knew of it. He had stopped right under the chandelier, its flood of light illumining his countenance as he looked long and hard at Grace, as one in a maze.
Much that had been inexplicable in his wife's conduct for some little time past was rendered clear now. Her feverish restlessness on the evenings she was going to Lady Sanely's; her coming home at all hours, jaded, sick, out of spirits, yet unable to sleep; her extraordinary demands for money, latterly to an extent which had puzzled and almost terrified him. But he had never yet refused it to her.
"It must be put a stop to somehow," said Grace.
"It must," he answered, resuming his walk, and drawing a deep breath. "What's all this wet on the carpet?"
"An accident this evening. Some ink was thrown down: my fault, I believe. At any cost, any sacrifice," continued Lady Grace. "If the habit should get hold of Adela, there is nothing but unhappiness before her—perhaps ruin."
"Any cost, any sacrifice, that I can make, shall be made," repeated Mr. Grubb. "But Adela will listen to no remonstrance from me. You know that, Grace."
"You must—stop the supplies," suggested Grace, dropping her voice to a confidential whisper. "Has she had much of late?"
"Yes."