She had never felt so helpless, so desperate as now.
She could not think of any course of action to pursue, and yet she knew she could not overlook this outrage to herself. That she should have under her roof as guest a woman whose position with her own husband she could no longer doubt, was impossible. All her pride rose in arms against such a possibility, and yet beyond all things she dreaded to explain to Sir Francis her reasons, and hear his hateful taunts and sneers against herself.
"And I am not blameless," she moans, pressing her hands against her hot and throbbing temples. "What can I say for myself?" As she kneels there, a knock comes at her door. She rises hurriedly, and opens it, and confronts—her husband.
He comes in. He does not look at her.
"Lauraine," he begins, "I just wanted to say a word to you. I have heard some bad news of young Athelstone I wanted to tell you. He has been dangerously ill—is lying alone and friendless at an hotel in Liverpool. I wish you would write and ask him to come here as soon as he can travel—it seems such a sad thing, you know."
He stops abruptly. He has repeated his lesson, and feels a little uncomfortable.
Lauraine lifts her head very proudly. Her voice, as she speaks, goes through him like the touch of ice.
"Has Lady Jean counselled you to say all this? Her anxiety and—yours, for Mr. Athelstone are really most praiseworthy. All the same, you have had his answer to your disinterested invitation. It is scarcely necessary for me to repeat it, even if I wished."
He looks at her with a dark flush mounting to his brow, but flinches beneath the steady challenge of her eyes.
"What do you mean?" he demands hoarsely.