"What have I insinuated, provided your conscience's clear?"
He urged her back to the chair.
"It's just this: we must talk it out. I've a right to know how far this folly's gone—what it portends, so that I can take measures of defence for myself and for my wife."
She yielded and sat down, but now she bent forward, her hands clasped at her knees to prevent their trembling.
Randall clearly made an effort to speak normally. His tone had resumed its professional quality. It was, in a sense, soothing, but the power of the words themselves could not be diminished, and, as he went on, her emotions strayed farther and farther from the boundaries she had plainly tried to impose.
"I overheard," he said. "It was Delafield and Ross. I went to Ross. I felt I knew him well enough. My dear! It's common scandal—much worse, I'll do you the credit of saying, than the facts. You've been seen with Treving in cafés of doubtful reputation, and out here on Long Island, at some of these unspeakable road houses—"
He turned away.
"People aren't kind at construing those things. He was a damned scoundrel to take you to such places."
"I'll judge that," she said. "If it's all you have to charge me with!"
"Isn't it enough? Good God! How indiscreet!"