“Then you are Harlow’s wife,” he said.
“No, I am no man’s wife,” she answered, impatiently. “Read on; read the newspaper slip.”
He read: “On board U. S. S. ‘Tuscaloosa,’ off Cherbourg, Oct. 20th, Ensign Clarence A. Harlow, aged twenty-four, by the bursting of a gun.”
As Loramer lifted his eyes the door opened and Lawrence came in. Cora uttered a low cry and reached for the paper, but Lawrence’s look frightened her so that she fell back into her chair. He kept his eyes upon her, but went toward Loramer and reached out a cigar-case which he brought in his hand.
“Here’s your cigar-case,” he said. “You’d better take it back.”
Loramer swore at the case, and flung it into the fire.
“Look here!” he cried. “Read that.” He thrust it before his face. “Go on! Do you see? She was his wife when she married you. You’re a free man!”
A brutal exultation seized Lawrence. He shouted and laughed,—“Ha ha, ha ha ha! She’s made fools of us both. You can have her, Harry, and welcome. I wish you joy. Ha ha, ha ha ha! She’s the devil! she’s the devil!”
Loramer answered with harsh and scornful hilarity. Neither took any other notice of her sitting there, sunken together, crushed, hiding her face with her hands. Loramer turned away and ran tramping up the stairs, crammed his things into his valise, and came tramping down. Lawrence was backed against the post at the stair-foot. Loramer grasped his arm in passing. “By-bye! Come and see us,” he called. He went out and banged the door, and they heard his hoarse laughter far down the quiet street.
To Cora that laughter sounded like the knell at the end of all things. She sat as they had left her, and did not move for a long while after Lawrence too had gone out.