“We were as good as engaged for nearly a year, though nobody knew—at least—they talked—but—it wasn’t open. Then he went away——”
“He chucked you?” said the husband brutally, wanting to hurt her into contact with himself. Her heart rose wildly with rage. Then “Yes,” she said, to anger him. He shifted from one foot to the other, giving a “Ph!” of rage. There was silence for a time.
“Then,” she resumed, her pain giving a mocking note to her words, “he suddenly went out to fight in Africa, and almost the very day I first met you, I heard from Miss Birch he’d got sunstroke—and two months after, that he was dead——”
“That was before you took on with me?” said the husband.
There was no answer. Neither spoke for a time. He had not understood. His eyes were contracted uglily.
“So you’ve been looking at your old courting places!” he said. “That was what you wanted to go out by yourself for this morning.”
Still she did not answer him anything. He went away from the door to the window. He stood with his hands behind him, his back to her. She looked at him. His hands seemed gross to her, the back of his head paltry.
At length, almost against his will, he turned round, asking:
“How long were you carrying on with him?”
“What do you mean?” she replied coldly.
“I mean how long were you carrying on with him?”
