Frank shook his head. “No, but I happened to hear this morning that he had been suddenly taken ill. The doctor came here by mistake. Don’t let’s talk about Paton.”
“Why? Don’t you like him?”
“I’m jealous of every man you even see. That day I came in and found him holding your hand I could have slain him.”
She smiled, and then the smile suddenly vanished and was replaced by a more thoughtful expression.
“Are you, then, jealous of my husband?” she asked suddenly.
The question was unexpected, and for a moment he had no answer ready.
“Why, yes; of course, I——”
“No, I see you are not. How curious! I think if I were in love with a married woman I should be morbidly jealous of her husband. My imagination would torture me, the grey matter in my brain would turn a bright orange with jealous hate.” She had never spoken to him of her relations with her husband. He had never asked any questions, and she had volunteered no information. But sometimes she had wondered that Frank could take his existence and rights so calmly.
“But you do not love him,” objected Frank; “if you loved him I should hate him.”
“I did love him—once.”