She stares at him in silence, utterly stunned. She remembers Oscar Wilde's trail for... that sort of behavior (and she remembers pitying the author that his personal matters became so terribly public). Oh, and she knows that things have changed very much in the last century --

But it's her husband.

Distantly, absurdly, it occurs to her that perhaps it's almost better that it's not another woman? That perhaps there's something different between the two men that she shouldn't feel threatened by?

She's not sure. Genuinely not sure what she makes of this at all.