A flush came into her pale face.
'I remember saying that. I said it because I was afraid of myself. I was shaken by meeting you again. I thought you must be hating me—you had every reason to hate me, and you spoke as if you did—and I did not want to show you what you were to me. It wasn't true, Peter. Five years ago I may have thought it, but not now. I have grown to understand the realities by this time. I have been through too much to have any false ideas left. I have had some chance to compare men, and I realize that they are not all kind, Peter, even sometimes, when they happen to think of it.'
'Audrey,' I said—I had never found myself able to ask the question before—'was—was—he—was Sheridan kind to you?'
She did not speak for a moment, and I thought she was resenting the question.
'No!' she said abruptly.
She shot out the monosyllable with a force that startled and silenced me. There was a whole history of unhappiness in the word.
'No,' she said again, after a pause, more gently this time. I understood. She was speaking of a dead man.
'I can't talk about him,' she went on hurriedly. 'I expect most of it was my fault. I was unhappy because he was not you, and he saw that I was unhappy and hated me for it. We had nothing in common. It was just a piece of sheer madness, our marriage. He swept me off my feet. I never had a great deal of sense, and I lost it all then. I was far happier when he had left me.'
'Left you?'
'He deserted me almost directly we reached America.' She laughed. 'I told you I had grown to understand the realities. I began then.'