Presently he spoke again.
“You know, my dear Cora,” he said, linking his fingers across his ample chest, “although of course, it distresses me that you should grieve for this man Lethbridge, yet I don’t quite appreciate your feeling what I can only suppose is a sort of affection for the fellow—you, a married woman. Somehow it seems—it seems not quite the right thing. A woman, when she marries, should have no thought for other men, at least of all thoughts of a—er—friendly nature. Now, consider for a moment, and tell me if your better nature does not tell you so itself.”
Cora Hartsilver winced, but her husband did not notice it. He did notice, however, when a moment later she smiled.
“You seem amused, my dear,” he said dryly. “May I ask what amuses you?”
“Oh nothing, Henry, nothing at all,” she answered quickly, then bit her lip. “It was only something I happened to think of just then.”
“Ah, then it was something. Then why say it was ‘nothing?’ You should always be truthful, Cora, always absolutely truthful, in even the smallest matters. And what did you ‘happen to think of just then?’”
“I can’t remember now. It’s gone. Anyway it was nothing of consequence. May I have that paper again, Henry?”
“Certainly,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders. Then, as he handed it to her, he said:
“Tell me what you know about Sir Stephen Lethbridge. I know him only by name.”
“Well, I have not seen him for a year or two,” she replied carelessly. “Indeed, I think not since our marriage. He came to the wedding, if you remember.”