He looked for the moment like a man shocked into immobility by a sudden storm of wind and sleet beating on his face.
“When did this appear?”
He moved towards her, the shallow gleam of sympathy in his eyes darkened by something more terrible than mere fear. Betty stood her ground. It was the man who betrayed the incoherency of panic.
“Come, tell me.”
His eyes were fixed upon her face, upon her mouth.
“It is I, Parker, who want to know—”
“Yes, yes, of course, dear, I can understand. You should have sent for me sooner.”
Intuition is a gift of the gods to women, a power—almost unholy in its brilliant reading of the hearts of others. Betty’s eyes were searching her husband’s face as though it were some delicately finished miniature in which every piece of shading had significance. Her breath came and went more deeply than when life had a normal flow. For all else she was cold, very quiet, the mistress even of her own repulsive face.
“I want you to tell me, Parker—”
She saw the muscles about his mouth quiver.