He became aware that Mr. Jackson was clearing his throat preparatory to farther revelations.
“I don’t know, of course, how far your wife’s family are aware of what people say about—well, about Madame Olenska’s refusal to accept her husband’s latest offer.”
Archer was silent, and Mr. Jackson obliquely continued: “It’s a pity—it’s certainly a pity—that she refused it.”
“A pity? In God’s name, why?”
Mr. Jackson looked down his leg to the unwrinkled sock that joined it to a glossy pump.
“Well—to put it on the lowest ground—what’s she going to live on now?”
“Now—?”
“If Beaufort—”
Archer sprang up, his fist banging down on the black walnut-edge of the writing-table.