I'm not in it--diplomacy, I
mean,--and I'm mighty thankful I'm not. Mrs. Spencer cold as ice, crafty
as the devil, beautiful as sin, and hard as adamant, knowing her Paris
and London and its scandals--I suppose she must know them in her
profession--instantly recognized me and placed me as Robert Clephane's
wife. For I am his wife--or rather his widow. I lied to her because I
didn't intend that she should have the gratification of seeing her play
win. She sought to distress and disconcert me, and to raise in your mind
a doubt of my motives and my story. It may be legitimate in diplomacy,
but it's dastardly and inhuman. 'Rumour also had it that he was none too
happy in his marriage, and that his Mrs. Clephane was something of the
same sort--she was of the type to make men's hearts flutter.' You see, I
recall her exact words. And what was I to do--"
"Just what you did do. You handled the matter beautifully."
"Thank you!" she smiled. "Yet she would win in the end--with almost any
other man than you. She plays for time; a very little time, possibly. I
don't know. I'm new in this business--and can't see far before me.
Indeed, I can't see at all; it's a maze of horrors. If I get out of this
mess alive, I'll promise never to get mixed in another.
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