Mrs. Strickland continued:
“After all, if he had any talent I should be the first to encourage it. I wouldn’t have minded sacrifices. I’d much rather be married to a painter than to a stockbroker. If it weren’t for the children, I wouldn’t mind anything. I could be just as happy in a shabby studio in Chelsea as in this flat.”
“My dear, I have no patience with you,” cried Mrs. MacAndrew. “You don’t mean to say you believe a word of this nonsense?”
“But I think it’s true,” I put in mildly.
She looked at me with good-humoured contempt.
“A man doesn’t throw up his business and leave his wife and children at the age of forty to become a painter unless there’s a woman in it. I suppose he met one of your—artistic friends, and she’s turned his head.”
A spot of colour rose suddenly to Mrs. Strickland’s pale cheeks.
“What is she like?”
I hesitated a little. I knew that I had a bombshell.
“There isn’t a woman.”