well-off by today's standards, with my salary as admiral, I am no longer 'Mr. Moneybags.' "
He lowered himself on the divan next to her. "I'm sorry, Mary, but we have to face it. We lost everything."
Her face was pale, and even stiffer than his own. "No, John. That's not quite right. We didn't lose everything. What we lost was our money. What we threw away was our life—starting with our son."
Simpson felt the wooden mask clamp down.
"Oh, God help us," she whispered. "Here it comes again. John Chandler Simpson, the man who can never be wrong about anything." She turned her face away from him, her eyes starting to water. "I hate that man. Now, more than I ever have."
"Mary—"
"Shut up. Just shut up." She rose to her feet, hands pressed to her thighs, and stared at the far wall. There was nothing on the wall. No painting, no tapestry, nothing. Simpson's salary had been enough to cover the house and the furniture and the servant. There had been nothing left over for Mary's beloved art works.
She seemed to be reading his mind. Not surprising, perhaps, for as long