"Indeed! Why would I not, pray?" she inquired, with mocking incredulity.
"Oh, because of a mere trifle in your code of morals--an insignificant impediment."
"Tchut!" she exclaimed, contemptuously. "Do you think me quite an idiot?"
"I think you would be much worse than an idiot if, in case of my father's discarding you, you should move an inch toward obtaining alimony or in the case of the coveted 'third.'"
"Because you have not, and never can have, the shadow of a right to either."
She caught her breath and gazed at the speaker with great dilating blue eyes.
"Alfred Whyte, your husband of twenty years ago, is still living and likely to live--a very handsome man of forty years old, residing at his magnificent country seat, Whyte Hall, Dulwich, near London."
"Married again?" she whispered, hoarsely.
"Certainly not; an English gentleman does not commit bigamy."
"How did you--become acquainted--with these facts?"
"I was sufficiently interested in you to seek him out, when I was in England. I discovered where he lived; also that he was looking out for the best investment of his idle capital. I called on him personally in the interests of our great enterprise. He is now a member of the London syndicate."
"Never mentioned your name. How could I, knowing as I did of the Stillwater episode in your story?"
"And he lives! Alfred Whyte lives! Oh, misery, misery, misery! Evil fate has followed me all the days of my life," moaned Rose, wringing her hands.
"Now, why should you take on so, because Whyte is living? Would you have had that fine, vigorous man, in the prime of his life, die for your benefit?"
"You were too ready to believe that, and to console yourself. He was more faithful to your memory."
"How do you know? You said my name was never mentioned between you."
"Not from him, but from a mutual acquaintance, of whom I asked how it was that Mr. Whyte had never married, I heard that he had grieved for her out of all reason and had ever remained faithful to the memory of his first and only love. My own inference was, and is, that the report of your death was got up by his friends to break off the connection."
"And you never told this 'mutual friend' that I still lived?"
"How could I, my dear, with my knowledge of your Stillwater affair? No, no; I was not going to disturb the peace of a good man by telling him that his child-wife of twenty years ago was still living, but lost to him by a fall far worse than death. No--I let you remain dead to him."