"I should. Cut it out."
"I have no intention of pressing the point. But have you no ambition to lead any different life?"
"My life's my own. I'll do what I like with it. I'd have ended it long ago, but I hadn't got the pluck. Now you know."
"Yes," replied Paul—"now I know. Come and sit down here beside me."
"I won't."
"You will. Come and sit down here."
Kitty Chester met the fixed gaze of his eyes and was lost. With the ghost of a swagger in her gait she crossed to the red plush sofa upon which Paul was seated and lounged upon the end of it, one foot swinging in the air. She had a trick of rubbing the second finger of her left hand as if twisting a ring, and Paul watched her as she repeated the gesture. He rested his hand upon hers.
"Did you love your husband?" he asked.
Kitty Chester stood up slowly. Her right hand, which held the lighted cigarette, went automatically to her breast. She wore a thin gold chain about her neck. She was staring at Paul haggardly.
"You did love him," he continued. "Is he dead?"