“And you have lent her horses and helped her to get away, and you leave her husband at play in there?”
“You have seen her marriage lines, I make no doubt,” he sneered irrelevantly.
“You dolt! If the gentleman horsewhips you, you will have richly earned it.”
“Eh? What?” gasped he, and his rubicund cheeks lost something of their high colour, for here was a possibility that had not entered into his calculations. But Mistress Quinn stayed not to answer him. Already she was making for the door, wiping the dough from her hands on to her apron as she went. A suspicion of her purpose flashed through her husband's mind.
“What would you do?” he inquired nervously.
“Tell the gentleman what has taken place.”
“Nay,” he cried, resolutely barring her way. “Nay. That you shall not. Would you—would you ruin me?”
She gave him a look of contempt, and dodging his grasp she gained the door and was half-way down the passage towards the common room before he had overtaken her and caught her round the middle.
“Are you mad, woman?” he shouted. “Will you undo me?”
“Do you undo me,” she bade him, snatching at his hands. But he clutched with the tightness of despair.