I looked at her. She was of a pretty face enough, rather pale of color, and with eyes that moved restlessly and measured all things. Lord, I have known women all my life in all stations, and I would ha’ pinned no certainty on those treacherous eyes. She was young, too, but had an air of satisfaction in herself, and was in no wise embarrassed by this interview. I had no mercy on her, with her oaths of constancy writ in water that figured to be tears and her false features.
“Madam,” said I civilly, “I hear you’re wed today to a gentleman of standing.”
“What is that to you, sir?” she asked quickly.
“’Tis nothing, for sure,” said I, “but to a friend of mine that I value deeply ’tis much.”
“You speak of Mr. Masters,” said she sharply, and with discomposure. “Sure, if he be a gentleman, he will not trouble me when he knows.”
“Anne!” said a voice from the top of the stairs, “Anne!”
’Twas her bridegroom calling. Well, she should go to him in what mood she might when I had done with her.
“He will never know,” says I, “unless he hear it from yourself.”
“Anne!” said the voice above the stairs.
“He shall not—I will not,” she cried angrily. “I will not be persecuted. ’Twas all a mistake.”