He had wax cigar-lights in his pocket. He struck one, and in a moment the gas flared up. He looked at her, and cried, starting back:
"Merciful heavens, Marion, what masquerade is this!"
"No masquerade," she said calmly, scrutinizing him. "These are my widow's weeds come from the mourning warehouse a few minutes ago. They say you ought to be prepared to see me in them."
"I--I!--prepared to see you in widow's weeds! Is Davenport dead?"
"Women whose husbands are living do not wear such things as these. They say you ought to be prepared to see me dressed as I am now."
She touched the streamers of her cap and pointed to the crape of her dress.
"What do you mean by saying they say I ought to be prepared for this? Who are they?--and what do you mean?"
"As I left the room a moment ago, a servant brought me this note. Read it."
He took the note and read it first quickly, a second time slowly. Then, letting it fall from his grasp, he threw his hands above his head, and crying out, "Oh, God!" fell back on a chair.