"That's a pose, of course, like everything else," cried Letty, trying to move herself away; "you once said it was."
"Before I knew her. It's not a pose—it's the secret of her whole life."
He walked back to the mantelpiece, conscious of a sudden rise of inward bitterness.
"Well, I shall go to bed," said Letty, again half rising. "You might, I think, have had the kindness and the good taste to say you were sorry I should have the humiliation of finding out where my husband spends his evenings, from Harding Watton!"
Tressady was stung.
"When have I ever concealed what I did from you?" he asked her hotly.
Letty, who was standing stiff and scornful, tossed her head without speaking.
"That means," said Tressady after a pause, "that you don't take my word for it—that you suspect me of deceiving you before to-night?"
Letty still said nothing. His eyes flashed. Then a pang of conscience smote him. He took up his cigarette again with a laugh.
"I think we are both a pair of babies," he said, as he pretended to look for matches. "You know very well that you don't really think I tell you mean lies. And let me assure you, my dear child, that fate did not mean Lady Maxwell to have lovers—and that she never will have them. But when that's said there's something else to say."