"Oh, yes, I loved him—the only real thing in my life!" she repeated, sinking back.
Ahead he saw the great Italian façade of the Bloodgood residence, where twenty servants awaited the call of this shadow at his side, whose invitation could make a social reputation. Then his quick eye, as they neared the steps, perceived the squat, stolid figure of Mr. Enos Bloodgood at the door.
"He is just come out—your husband," he said hurriedly, with a sudden new sensation of dread. And he repeated, a little excitement in his voice, fearing she did not understand the danger: "Be careful; he is there—your husband."
"Yes, I saw him."
She took the veil from her hat, and, folding it, handed it to him, her face set in hardness and contempt.
"You might say Mrs. Kildair had invited—"
"I know what to say," she said, checking him, and a smile incongruous at the moment gave the last touch of tragedy to the imagination of her companion. "Open the door."
He gazed at her, struck with the strange, dual personality in the frail, proud body—the abandon of the woman who loved and the calm of the woman who hated. She who a moment before had cared nothing for what she revealed to him in the unrestraint of her sorrow, did not hesitate now a moment, face to face with the peril of such a confrontation.
"Open the door," she repeated sharply.
Recalled to his senses, he sprang out and gave her his hand, accompanying her to the chiseled marble steps, where he left her, with a lift of his hat to the husband above who awaited her with a quiet, cynical enjoyment.