“Fie for shame!” said I, pleased to see her merry; and then I went on to tell her the sad story of Andre, but not of what he told me concerning Arthur. The tears came to her eyes, although of course it was no new tale, and she went white again, so that I would have turned the talk aside, but she stopped me, and, hesitating a little, said:
“Did that miserable treachery begin when Mr. Arnold was in the town?”
I said it was thought to have done so. For my own part, I believed it began here, but just when I could not say. “But why do you ask?” I added, being for a reason curious.
For a little she sat still, her hands, in delicate white lace mittens, on her lap. Then she spoke, at first not looking up, “Men are strange to me, Mr. Wynne. I suppose in war they must do things which in peace would be shameful.”
I said yes, and began to wonder if she had divined that Arthur had been deep in that wretched plot. I do not know to this day. She kept her counsel if she did. Women see through us at times as if we were glass, and then again are caught by a man-trap that one would think must be perfectly visible.
“And was poor Peggy Shippen in it?”
“Oh, no! no!” I replied.
“I am glad of that; but had I been she, I would never have seen him again—never! never! To think of life with one who is as black a creature as that man!”
“But, after all, he is her husband.” I wanted to see what she would say.
“Her husband! Yes. But a husband without honour! No! no! I should have to respect the man I loved, or love would be dead—dead! Let us talk of something else. Poor Peggy! Must you go?” she added, as I rose. “This horrid war! We may never meet again.” And then quickly, “How is Captain Blushes, and shall we see him too?”