"Who's in love with me now?," she asked with the laugh of a child, exulting in her beauty, as it were, until in a flash I saw that her whole life was natural to her... Inevitable, I might say.
"Arthur Spenworth," I told her.
"Oh, he's a dear old thing," she answered.
"He is my husband," I said.
I might have added "and the father of our boy," but I would make no appeal; I had come there to decide dispassionately what had to be done... The woman jumped up and faced me, but I stood my ground. Her eyes kept changing in expression, and I saw that she was first bewildered ... and then defiant ... then curious ... then a little ashamed, then defiant again and once more bewildered.
"Well?," she said; and then in spite of herself, as it were, "You're not a bit like what I expected."
"Older perhaps?," I asked. "My dear young lady, my husband and I are much of an age, but he carries his years better. Why, goodness me, you are a child! Our boy must be ten years older than you... Won't you ask me to sit down? Walking upstairs makes me out of breath, and I want to have a little talk with you. I have only just heard of this; and I want to know what is to be done. You will find me a reasonable woman, I hope, and perhaps I know too much of the world to judge hastily or reproach easily. Won't you tell me everything, so that we may understand better how we are situated?"
Do you know, because I remained dispassionate, I felt in a moment that I was holding my own and in another moment that I was gaining ground. I who had walked upstairs wondering whether my knees would give way under me... It was Mrs. Templedown who was embarrassed... And I had not sought to make myself a ruler or a judge...
I will not weary you with the story. Arthur had met her—in the train from Birmingham! Is there not dignity and distinction in that? He had asked her to dine with him on reaching London, they had met three or four times, Arthur had begun giving her little presents. How much one can ever believe of such a woman's story I do not profess to judge. She vowed that their relations were innocent, that her husband's death had left her heart-broken and that she was simply and sincerely grateful to any man who shewed her a little kindness; in that class I gather it is only natural for every girl to have some benevolent elderly protector who takes her out to dinner and gives her little presents. If it had not been Arthur, I was to understand, it would have been some one else. I confess that her ingenuousness rang a little hollow when she betrayed how intimately and accurately she knew who he was—the connection with Spenworth on one side and with Brackenbury on the other; like the rest of them, she hunted with one quarry—or one type of quarry—definitely in view...
After the little presents came the big presents—dresses, jewellery and sums of money which she did not specify. One thought of the rags that one had worn oneself during the war... No shame in telling me about that! She had nothing of her own except this house which the husband had left her, and Arthur would have been hurt if she had refused... So charming! So delicate—on both sides... By and by Arthur seems to have become more exacting, but the girl vowed again that she kept him at arm's length—knowing her own value, one presumes. I did not enquire very closely into this aspect of the campaign, as I knew only too well what was coming. When everything else failed, he would have to offer her marriage—by way of the Divorce Court.