“Scarcely necessary. He’ll soon die.” And turning to me he added: “Not a sound organ in his body. Besides, it seems to me that if there is any murdering to be done, it’s the business of Sir Marcus.”
“There is going to be no murdering,” said I, profoundly disgusted, “and don’t talk in that revolting way about the wretched man dying.”
I regained possession of Carlotta who, seeing that I was angry, cast a scared glance at me, and became docile as suddenly as she had grown passionate. I turned to Judith.
“Will you ever forgive me—” I began.
But the sight of her face froze me. It was white and hard and haggard, and the lips were drawn into a thin line, and the delicate colour she had put upon her cheeks stood out in ghastly contrast. Her dress, like the foam of a summer sea, mocked the winter in her face.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, smiling icily. “I came for a variety entertainment and I have not been disappointed. Good-bye. Perhaps Mr. Pasquale will be so kind as to put me into a cab.”
“I will drive you home, if you will allow me,” said Pasquale.
We separated, shaking hands as if nothing had happened, as perfunctorily as if we had been the most distant of acquaintances.
On our way back we spoke very little. Carlotta nestled close against me, seeking the shelter of my arm. She cried, I don’t know why, but it seemed to afford comfort. I kissed her lips and her hair.
At home, I drew the sofa near the fire—it has been a raw night and she feels the cold like a tropical plant—and sat down by her side.