She was leaning carelessly back in her chair, watching the Spencer
woman through half-closed eyes--a bright flush on each cheek and: a
faint smile, half sneer, half amusement, on her lips. Suddenly she
looked at me, and the smile flashed out into such an one as she had
given me in the Royal Box.
My heart gave a great bound--I knew she trusted me, still. I turned to
the woman in black.
"Is it possible, Madame, that you claim to be my wife?" I asked.
She dropped Moore's arm and took a step toward me--and, as I live,
there were tears in her eyes.
"What has changed you, Armand?" she asked. "Why do you flout me so?"
I stared at her. "God help me, woman, you must be crazy!" I said.
She put out her hand appealingly. "You don't mean that, dear, surely?"
And, now, the tears were in her voice, too.
"What I mean, Madame, is that you are either crazy or playing some
game," I answered curtly.
She brushed aside the tears and gave me a look of almost heart-broken
appeal.
"Why do you deny me, Armand?" she cried. "Have I grown ugly in the
last few months? Has the beauty you used to praise turned so soon to
ashes?"
Unfortunately, for me, her beauty had not turned to ashes.
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