But it did
not turn him from his purpose.
"I'm an old friend of Mrs. Leath's. It's not unnatural that
Madame de Chantelle should talk to me."
She dropped the screen on the table and stood up, turning on
him the same small mask of wrath and scorn which had glared
at him, in Paris, when he had confessed to his suppression
of her letter. She walked away a step or two and then came
back.
"May I ask what Madame de Chantelle said to you?"
"She made it clear that she should not encourage the
marriage."
"And what was her object in making that clear to YOU?"
Darrow hesitated. "I suppose she thought----"
"That she could persuade you to turn Mrs. Leath against me?"
He was silent, and she pressed him: "Was that it?"
"That was it."
"But if you don't--if you keep your promise----"
"My promise?"
"To say nothing...nothing whatever..." Her strained look
threw a haggard light along the pause.
As she spoke, the whole odiousness of the scene rushed over
him. "Of course I shall say nothing...you know that..." He
leaned to her and laid his hand on hers. "You know I
wouldn't for the world..."
She drew back and hid her face with a sob. Then she sank
again into her seat, stretched her arms across the table and
laid her face upon them. He sat still, overwhelmed with
compunction. After a long interval, in which he had
painfully measured the seconds by her hard-drawn breathing,
she looked up at him with a face washed clear of bitterness.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225