Robert felt a violent increase of the irritation that possessed him—an irritation which had its source in many complex, undefined emotions.
“Oh, as to that,” he began, with a contemptuous laugh, “that’s quite immaterial. Surely, my dear Cecily, you can’t imagine that I’m jealous of this little boom of yours? I don’t take that seriously.”
She was stung by his tone. “Am I to understand that there’s something you do?”
“Yes,” returned Robert, suddenly. “I object to your intimacy with Mayne.” The words broke from him, apparently without his own volition. He was startled at their sound.
For a long moment there was silence.
“On what grounds?” inquired Cecily at last, in the same icy tone.
“On the grounds that people are talking—and that you are my wife.”
She looked full at him and he felt, rather than saw, the scorn in her face. “Do you remember,” she said at last, “my surprise when, without consulting me, you asked Dick Mayne to the house?”
“When I trusted my wife,” he began, feeling that the confidence was fading out of his voice. “I thought she would have sufficient regard for my——”
His words were cut short by her bitter laugh.