some dingy office, jabbered a word or two to a man without h's and with a pen behind his ear, signed their names, and then came out as good as you and me; very much as you and I the other day sent off that little postal-packet to Paris from our grocer's back-shop."
Traffle showed his interest,—he took in the news. "Well, you know, you didn't make Church a condition."
"No,—fortunately not. I was clever enough," Jane bridled, "for that."
She had more for him, her manner showed,—she had that to which the bare fact announced was as nothing; but he saw he must somehow, yes, pay by knowing nothing more than he could catch at by brilliant guesses. That had after an instant become a comfort to him: it would legitimate dissimulation, just as this recognized necessity would make itself quickly felt as the mere unregarded underside of a luxury. "And they're at all events, I take it," he went on, "sufficiently tied to be divorced."
She kept him—but only for a moment. "Quite sufficiently, I gather; and that," she said, "may come."
She made him, with it, quite naturally start. "Are they thinking of it already?"
She looked at him another instant, hard, as with the rich expression of greater stores of private knowledge than she could adapt all at once to his intelligence. "You've no conception—not the least!—of how he feels."
