"You never told me," he said at last.
"Why should I? What was the good of telling you?"
"It was on the night of my--when I was taken ill?"
"Yes. The telegram came later in the evening. Don't bother about it now,
Alexander."
"Did you hope it meant I was dead?"
For a moment she sat still; then she sprang up, ran across the room, and
fell on her knees before him, grasping his arms in her hands. "No, no,
no, I didn't. Indeed, indeed, I didn't."
He sat still in her clasp, looking intently in her face. His was hard and
sneering.
"Yes, you did. You wished me dead. By God, you wish me dead now. Well,
you can wait a little. I shall be dead soon." With a sudden rough
movement he freed himself from her hands and pushed her away. "I suppose
wives often wish their husbands dead, but they don't tell them so quite
so plainly."
"It's not true, I've never told you so."
"Oh, I'm not a fool. I don't need to have it spelt out for me in
syllables."
She rose slowly to her feet, and, turning, went back to her own chair.
Quisante sat where he was, quite motionless.
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