She did not say why not, seated there nervously pleating the fragile stuff clinging to her knee.
“Why not?” he repeated menacingly. Her unexpectedly quiescent attitude had emboldened him to a bullying tone—something he had not lately ventured on.
She raised her eyes to his: “I—rather like him,” she said quietly.
“Then, by God! he'll pay for that!” he burst out, mask off, every inflamed feature shockingly congested.
“Roy! You dare not—”
“I tell you I—”
“You dare not!”
The palpitating silence lengthened; slowly the blood left the swollen veins. Heavy pendulous lip hanging, he stared at her from distended eyes, realising that he had forgotten himself. She was right. He dared not. And she held the whip-hand as usual.
For every suspicion he could entertain, she had evidence of a certainty to match it; for every chance that he might have to prove anything, she had twenty proven facts. And he knew it. Why they had, during all these years, made any outward pretence of conjugal unity they alone knew. The modus vivendi suited them better than divorce: that was apparent, or had been until recently. Recently Leila Mortimer had changed—become subdued and softened to a degree that had perplexed her husband. Her attitude toward him lacked a little of the bitterness and contempt she usually reserved for him in private; she had become more prudent, almost cautious at times.
“I'll tell you one thing,” he said with a sudden snarl: “You'd better be careful there is no gossip about you and Plank.”