"Are you speaking of my wife?" he said.
Julia laughed softly, reproachfully, and let her eyes rest on his.
"Foolish man!" she said. "You might have trusted me. Think what I've had to endure! Wasn't I punished enough for that ancient misunderstanding? Did you think I was so vindictive that you dared not confide in me? But I would have shared your burdens. For your sake I could even forgive your mother."
What was she driving at? His mouth set in a stiff line that might have warned her if she had not been so sure.
"I meant to wait," she said, "to pretend I was ignorant like the rest; to hug the secret till you struggled out of that wicked tangle and came to me. I understand you so well. I knew for whose sake you were trying to avoid a scandal. Oh, Barnaby, how mad it was—and how like you—!"
"Julia," he said, "what do you mean?"
She missed the dangerous note in his voice, too quiet.
"I'm not angry with you—now," she said caressingly. "But, Barnaby, was it fair to me? People are so uncharitable ... they talked cruelly about us. And if I hadn't known that she was not your wife,—if I hadn't known you were free——"
"That's a mistake," he said grimly. "I am not free."
She stared at him. So great was her gift of illusion, so invincible the vanity that in her was the breath of life, that she had put down his stiffness, his strangeness, to the effort to keep his feelings in control. The glad shock of her visit must have been almost too much for him. But what was that he was saying?