"
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. The wells of the brass
double-inkstand danced in their sockets.
"What the devil do you mean, sir?"
Mr. Jackson, shifting himself slightly in his chair,
turned a tranquil gaze on the young man's burning
face.
"Well--I have it on pretty good authority--in fact,
on old Catherine's herself--that the family reduced
Countess Olenska's allowance considerably when she
definitely refused to go back to her husband; and as, by
this refusal, she also forfeits the money settled on her
when she married--which Olenski was ready to make
over to her if she returned--why, what the devil do YOU
mean, my dear boy, by asking me what I mean?" Mr.
Jackson good-humouredly retorted.
Archer moved toward the mantelpiece and bent over
to knock his ashes into the grate.
"I don't know anything of Madame Olenska's private
affairs; but I don't need to, to be certain that what
you insinuate--"
"Oh, I don't: it's Lefferts, for one," Mr. Jackson
interposed.
"Lefferts--who made love to her and got snubbed
for it!" Archer broke out contemptuously.
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