And the words were scarcely out of her mouth when the butler came in, followed immediately by Jenny. Basil gave a cry of surprise. The servant closed the door, and for one moment, embarrassed, Hilda did not know what to say. Basil recovered himself first.
“I think you know my wife, Mrs. Murray.”
“Oh yes, I know her; you needn’t introduce me,” Jenny burst out with a loud and angry voice. She went up quickly to Hilda. “I’ve come for my husband.”
“Jenny, what are you saying?” cried Basil, foreseeing a hideous scene. He turned to Hilda. “Would you mind leaving us alone?”
“No, I want to speak to you,” interrupted Jenny. “I don’t want any of your society shams. I’ve come here to speak out. I’ve caught you at last. You’re trying to get my husband from me.”
“Be quiet, Jenny. Are you mad? For God’s sake, leave us, Mrs. Murray; shell insult you.”
“You think of her—you don’t think of me. You don’t care how much I suffer.”
Basil took his wife’s arm, trying to get her away, but vehemently she shook him off. And Hilda stood before her pale and conscience-stricken; that sudden irruption showed her the sordid ugliness of what she had meant to do, and she was horrified. She motioned to Basil that he was to allow his wife to say what she would.
“You’re stealing my husband from me!” exclaimed Jenny threateningly. “Oh, you. . . .” She was at a loss for words violent enough, and she trembled with impotent rage. “You wicked woman!”
Hilda forced herself to speak.