There was no opportunity for more: dinner was waiting. Mr. Angerstyne and Anne sat side by side that evening; Lady Knight was opposite. Miss Dinah presided as usual, her best yellow cap perched on the top of her curls.
During an interval of silence between the general bustle and rattle of the dinner, for the two girls who waited (after their own fashion) had both run away with the fish to bring in the meat, Lady Knight looked across the table to put a question to Mr. Angerstyne.
“How is your wife?”
The silence dropped to a dead stillness. He appeared not to hear.
“How is your wife, Henry Angerstyne? Have you seen her lately?”
He could not pretend to be deaf any longer, and answered with angry curtness:
“No, I have not. She is all right, I suppose.”
By the way the whole table stared, you might have thought a bombshell had fallen. Miss Dinah sat with her mouth open in sheer amazement, and then spoke involuntarily.
“Are you really married, Mr. Angerstyne?”
“Of course he is married,” said Lady Knight, answering Miss Dinah. “All the world knows that. His wife is my cousin. I saw her at Lowestoft a few weeks ago, Henry. She was looking prettier than ever.”