There was no necessity for any further explanation. The man's eyes were fixed, not upon Mrs. Boulte, but her companion. Mrs. Boulte saw the look.
“Speak to him!” she pleaded, turning to the woman at her side. “Oh, speak to him! Tell him what you told me just now. Tell him you hate him. Tell him you hate him!”
She bent forward and wept bitterly, while the sais, impassive, went forward to hold the horse. Mrs. Vansuythen turned scarlet and dropped the reins. She wished to be no party to such unholy explanations.
“I've nothing to do with it,” she began, coldly; but Mrs. Boulte's sobs overcame her, and she addressed herself to the man. “I don't know what I am to say, Captain Kurrell. I don't know what I can call you. I think you've—you've behaved abominably, and she has cut her forehead terribly against the table.”
“It doesn't hurt. It isn't anything,” said Mrs. Boulte feebly. “That doesn't matter. Tell him what you told me. Say you don't care for him. Oh, Ted, won't you believe her?”
“Mrs. Boulte has made me understand that you were—that you were fond of her once upon a time,” went on Mrs. Vansuythen.
“Well!” said Kurrell brutally. “It seems to me that Mrs. Boulte had better be fond of her own husband first.”
“Stop!” said Mrs. Vansuythen. “Hear me first. I don't care—I don't want to know anything about you and Mrs. Boulte; but I want you to know that I hate you, that I think you are a cur, and that I'll never, never speak to you again. Oh, I don't dare to say what I think of you, you—man! Sais, gorah ko jane do.”
“I want to speak to Ted,” moaned Mrs. Boulte, but the dog-cart rattled on, and Kurrell was left on the road, shamed, and boiling with wrath against Mrs. Boulte.
He waited till Mrs. Vansuythen was driving back to her own house, and, she being freed from the embarrassment of Mrs. Boulte's presence, learned for the second time her opinion of himself and his actions.