Duncan Heriot had died in India while his wife was in England, and he had died of too much drink and an enlarged liver. As she looked at Chris, with his handsome face and long, lithe figure, she was mentally contrasting him with the short, stubby man whom she had married solely for his money.
She liked Chris for the same reason that he liked her. They had many tastes in common and seldom bored one another.
She was a year or two older than he, but she was still a young woman, and had it not been for the money question she would have done her best to marry him; but she knew that Chris had no money, and life without money was to Mrs. Heriot very much as a motor-car 60 would be without its engine. So she had launched the craft of Plato between them, and comforted herself with the thought that he was not a marrying man.
It had been a real shock to her to hear of his wedding. She had been very anxious to meet his wife and find out for herself why he had so suddenly changed his mind.
Her quick eyes had already discovered that it had not been for love! She had made a life study of the opposite sex, and she knew without any telling that there was another reason for which she must seek.
"You know," she said, abruptly, "I was ever so surprised to hear that you were married?"
"Were you?" Christ tilted his hat further over his eyes. "Most people were, I think. Poor old Feathers was absolutely disgusted."
"It was very sudden, wasn't it?" she pursued. "Quite romantic, from all accounts."
"Oh, I don't know. I've known her all my life—we were brought up together."
"Really!" She opened her eyes wide. "Cousins or something?" she hazarded.