“We will go out to-morrow.”
“To-morrow! Impossible. We are expected to-day. A most important visit.”
“But where?”
He hesitated a second.
“To Hemerlingue’s.”
She raised her great eyes, thinking he was making game of her. Then he told her of his meeting with the baron at the funeral of de Mora and the understanding they had come to.
“Go there, if you like,” said she coldly. “But you little know me if you believe that I, an Afchin, will ever set foot in that slave’s house.”
Cabassu, prudently seeing what was likely to happen, had fled into a neighbouring room, carrying with him the five acts of The Revolt under his arm.
“Come,” said the Nabob to his wife, “I see that you do not know the terrible position I am in. Listen.”
Without thinking of the maids or the negresses, with the sovereign indifference of an Oriental for his household, he proceeded to picture his great distress, his fortune sequestered over seas, his credit destroyed over here, his whole career in suspense before the judgment of the Chamber, the influence of the Hemerlingues on the judge-advocate, and the necessity of the sacrifice at the moment of all personal feeling to such important interests. He spoke hotly, tried to convince her, to carry her away. But she merely answered him, “I shall not go,” as if it were only a matter of some unimportant walk, a little too long for her.