“Of course. From the very start.”
His face got redder.
“I’ll teach her to let my wife alone,” he muttered. “To dare—my wife!”
“I’m afraid it’s a little late in the day to begin now,” Lady Holme said. “Society’s been laughing over it, and your apparent appreciation of it, the best part of the season.”
“My what?”
“Your apparent enjoyment of the performance.”
And then she went quietly out of the room and shut the door gently behind her. But directly the door was shut she became another woman. Her mouth was distorted, her eyes shone, she rushed upstairs to her bedroom, locked herself in, threw herself down on the bed and pressed her face furiously against the coverlet.
The fact that she had spoken at last to her husband of the insult she had been silently enduring, the insult he had made so far more bitter than it need have been by his conduct, had broken down something within her, some wall of pride behind which had long been gathering a flood of feeling. She cried now frantically, with a sort of despairing rage, cried and crushed herself against the bed, beating the pillows with her hands, grinding her teeth.
What was the use of it all? What was the use of being beautiful, of being young, rich? What was the use of having married a man she had loved? What was the use? What was the use?
“What’s the use?” she sobbed the words out again and again.