It seemed for a little, between humour and sadness, to strike her. "Almost anyone would. Still," she less pensively declared, "we want the right one."
"Surely; the right one"—I could only echo it. "But how," I then proceeded, "has it happily been confirmed to you?"
It pulled her up a trifle. "'Confirmed'——?"
"That he's her lover."
My eyes had been meeting hers without, as it were, hers quite meeting mine. But at this there had to be i*********e. "By my husband."
It pulled me up a trifle. "Brissenden knows?"
She hesitated; then, as if at my tone, gave a laugh. "Don't you suppose I've told him?"
I really couldn't but admire her. "Ah—so you have talked!"
It didn't confound her. "One's husband isn't talk. You're cruel moreover," she continued, "to my joke. It was Briss, poor dear, who
