She referred to the first of their liaison, when they made their love in that same room under the very nose of a purblind husband.
The Chamberlain toyed with his silver box and found it easiest to get out of a response by a sigh that might mean anything.
“You have the loveliest hand,” she went on, looking at his fingers, that certainly were shapely enough, as no one knew better than Simon Mac-Taggart. “I don't say you are in any way handsome,”—her eyes betrayed her real thought,—“but I'll admit to the hands,—they're dear pets, Sim.”
He thrust them in his pockets.
“Heavens! Kate!” he protested in a low tone, and assuming a quite unnecessary look of vacuity for the benefit of the husband, who gazed across the dim-lit room at them, “don't behave like an idiot; faithful wives never let their husbands see them looking like that at another man's fingers. What do you think of our monsher? He's a pretty enough fellow, if you'll not give me the credit.”
“Oh, he's good enough, I daresay,” she answered without looking aside a moment. “I would think him much better if he was an inch or two taller, a shade blacker, and Hielan' to boot. But tell me this, and tell me no more, Sim; where has your lordship been for three whole days? Three whole days, Simon MacTaggart, and not a word of explanation. Are you not ashamed of yourself, sir? Do you know that I was along the riverside every night this week? Can you fancy what I felt to hear your flageolet playing for tipsy fools in Ludovic's room? Very well, I said: let him! I have pride of my own, and I was so angry to-night that I said I would never go again to meet you. You cannot blame me if I was not there to-night, Sim. But there!—seeing you have rued your cruelty to me and made an excuse to see me even before him, there, I'll forgive you.”
“Oh! well!” drawled the Chamberlain, ambiguously.
“But I can't make another excuse this week. He sits in here every night, and has a new daft notion for late suppers. Blame yourself for it, Sim, but there can be no trysts this week.”
“I'm a most singularly unlucky person,” said the Chamberlain, in a tone that deaf love alone could fail to take alarm at.
“I heard a story to-day that frightened me, Sim,” she went on, taking up some fine knitting and bending over it while she spoke rapidly, always in tones too low to carry across the room. “It was that you have been hanging about that girl of Doom's you met here.”