“Your brother-in-law’s second wife? That’s rather complicated.”
“Well, of course, he need n’t have married again?” said Mrs. Percival, with a small sigh.
“Whom did he marry?” asked Benyon, staring.
Percival Theory had turned away. “Oh, if you are going into her relationships!” he murmured, and joined his sister at the brilliant window, through which, from the distance, the many-voiced uproar of Naples came in.
“He married first my sister Dora, and she died five years ago. Then he married _her_,” and Mrs. Percival nodded at the princess.
Benyon’s eyes went back to the portrait; he could see what she meant--it stared out at him. “Her? Georgina?”
“Georgina Gressie. Gracious, do you know her?”
It was very distinct--that answer of Mrs. Percival’s, and the question that followed it as well. But he had the resource of the picture; he could look at it, seem to take it very seriously, though it danced up and down before him. He felt that he was turning red, then he felt that he was turning pale. “The brazen impudence!” That was the way he could speak to himself now of the woman he had once loved, and whom he afterwards hated, till this had died out, too. Then the wonder of it was lost in the quickly growing sense that it would make a difference for him,--a great difference. Exactly what, he didn’t see yet; only a difference that swelled and swelled as he thought of it, and caught up, in its expansion, the girl who stood behind him so quietly, looking into the Italian garden.
The custodian drew Mrs. Percival away to show her another princess, before Benyon answered her last inquiry. This gave him time to recover from his first impulse, which had been to answer it with a negative; he saw in a moment that an admission of his acquaintance with Mrs. Roy (Mrs. Roy!--it was prodigious!) was necessarily helping him to learn more. Besides, it needn’t be compromising. Very likely Mrs. Percival would hear one day that he had once wanted to marry her. So, when he joined his companions a minute later he remarked that he had known Miss Gressie years before, and had even admired her considerably, but had lost sight of her entirely in later days. She had been a great beauty, and it was a wonder that she had not married earlier. Five years ago, was it? No, it was only two. He had been going to say that in so long a time it would have been singular he should not have heard of it. He had been away from New York for ages; but one always heard of marriages and deaths. This was a proof, though two years was rather long. He led Mrs. Percival insidiously into a further room, in advance of the others, to whom the cicerone returned. She was delighted to talk about her “connections,” and she supplied him with every detail He could trust himself now; his self-possession was complete, or, so far as it was wanting, the fault was that of a sudden gayety which he could not, on the spot, have accounted for. Of course it was not very flattering to them--Mrs. Percivals own people--that poor Dora’s husband should have consoled himself; but men always did it (talk of widows!) and he had chosen a girl who was--well, very fine-looking, and the sort of successor to Dora that they needn’t be ashamed of. She had been awfully admired, and no one had understood why she had waited so long to marry. She had had some affair as a girl,--an engagement to an officer in the army,--and the man had jilted her, or they had quarrelled, or something or other. She was almost an old maid,--well, she was thirty, or very nearly,--but she had done something good now. She was handsomer than ever, and tremendously stylish. William Roy had one of the biggest incomes in the city, and he was quite affectionate. He had been intensely fond of Dora--he often spoke of her still, at least to her own relations; and her portrait, the last time Mrs. Percival was in his house (it was at a party, after his marriage to Miss Gressie), was still in the front parlor.. Perhaps by this time he had had it moved to the back; but she was sure he would keep it somewhere, anyway. Poor Dora had had no children; but Georgina was making that all right,--she had a beautiful boy. Mrs. Percival had what she would have called quite a pleasant chat with Captain Benyon about Mrs. Roy. Perhaps _he_ was the officer--she never thought of that? He was sure he had never jilted her? And he had never quarrelled with a lady? Well, he must be different from most men.