Somers said nothing, but looked at me, removing his cigarette, as if my words would be the better of explanation.
‘She has taken refuge in them—in Bob Harbottle’s soldierly qualities—ever since she married him,’ I continued.
‘Taken refuge,’ he repeated, coldly, but at my uncompromising glance his eyes fell.
‘Well?’ I said.
‘You mean—’
‘Oh, I mean what I say,’ I laughed. ‘Your cigarette has gone out—have another.’
‘I think her devotion to him splendid.’
‘Quite splendid. Have you seen the things he brought her from the Simla Art Exhibition? He said they were nice bits of colour, and she has hung them in the drawing-room, where she will have to look at them every day. Let us admire her—dear Judy.’
‘Oh,’ he said, with a fine air of detachment, ‘do you think they are so necessary, those agreements?’
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘we see that they are not indispensable. More sugar? I have only given you one lump. And we know, at all events,’ I added, unguardedly, ‘that she could never have had an illusion about him.’