She suddenly found herself thinking of her visitor, Calhoun Weaver, and not pleasantly.

He would hear of their ruin tomorrow, perhaps of her own flight.

He would remember his visit, and what would he think of her deceitful frivolity?
Would he believe that she was then ignorant of the failure?
It was her first sense of any accountability to others than herself, but even then it was rather owing to an uneasy consciousness of what her husband must feel if he were subjected to the criticisms of men like Calhoun.

She wondered if others knew that he had kept her in ignorance of his flight.

Did Poindexter know it, or had he only entrapped her into the admission?
Why had she not been clever enough to make him think that she knew it already?
For the moment she hated Poindexter for sharing that secret.