Jane produced a pocket-handkerchief. It was a very little one, but it sufficed. In her own mind Jane described it as local colour.
“We have parted,” she said, and dabbed her eyes.
“Renata! But you’re married to him!”
“No,” said Jane, quite truthfully.
An inward thankfulness that she was not married to Arnold supported her.
Daphne stared at her with bulging eyes.
“You’re not! But he said, ‘We were married this morning.’ I read it with my own eyes, and I could repeat it in my sleep. I know it by heart....”
Jane checked her with a look that held so much mysterious meaning that the flood of words was actually stemmed.
“He didn’t marry me,” said Jane, in a tense whisper. She looked straight into the boiled gooseberry eyes, and then covered her own.
“He didn’t marry you?” repeated Daphne, gasping.