A small, sly, admirative look came into her eyes. "We'll see," she said.
Frank was conscious of a considerable sense of disappointment. The thing had been almost touching just now, as the reserve first broke up, but it was a very poor little soul, it seemed to him, that had at last made its appearance. (He did not yet see that that made it all the more touching.) He did not quite see what to do next. He was Christian enough to resent the whole affair; but he was aristocratic enough in his fastidiousness to think at this moment that perhaps it did not matter much for people of this sort. Perhaps it was the highest ideal that persons resembling the Major and Gertie could conceive. But her next remark helped to break up his complacency.
"You're a Catholic," she said. "People say that you Catholics don't mind this kind of thing—me and the Major, I mean."
There was a dreadful sort of sly suggestiveness about this remark that stung him. He exploded: and his wounded pride gave him bitterness.
"My good girl," he said, "Catholics simply loathe it. And even, personally, I think it's beastly."
"Well—I ..."
"I think it's beastly," said Frank didactically. "A good girl like you, well-brought-up, good parents, nice home, religious—instead of which "—he ended in a burst of ironical reminiscence—"you go traveling about with a—" he checked himself—"a man who isn't your husband. Why don't you marry him?"
"I can't!" wailed Gertie, suddenly stricken again with remorse; "his wife's alive."
Frank jumped. Somehow that had never occurred to him. And yet how amazingly characteristic of the Major!