Madge Ellison threw her gloves on the bed, unpinned her hat, and waited.
“He is leaving England.”
“Leaving England?”
“Yes, for the Cape.”
“And you?”
“My own mistress to do everything—anything that I please.”
She gave a curious little laugh, and began straightening out the letter on her knee, looking at it with eyes that strove to make cynicism cover the wounded instincts of her womanhood.
“Of course—he does not care. He was afraid to face things.”
“The coward!”
Madge Ellison bent over her, and laid one hand along her cheek.