“You mistake,” said she, and tore her hand from his. “You say that what I have done is unworthy. I admit it; but it is with unworthiness that we must combat unworthiness. Was your attitude towards me less unworthy?”
“I'll make amends for it if you'll come home,” said he.
“My home is here. You cannot compel me.”
“I should be loath to,” he admitted, sighing.
“You cannot,” she insisted.
“I think I can,” said he. “There is a law..”
“A law that will hang you if you invoke it,” she cut in quickly. “This much can I safely promise you.”
She had need to say no more to tell him everything. At all times half a word was as much to Mr. Wilding as a whole sentence to another. She saw the tightening of his lips, the hardening of his eyes, beyond which he gave no other sign that she had hit him.
“I see,” said he. “It is another bargain that you make. I do suspect there is some trader's blood in the Westmacott veins. Let us be clear. You hold the wherewithal to ruin me, and you will use it if I insist upon my husband's rights. Is it not so?”
She nodded in silence, surprised at the rapidity with which he had read the situation.