“I knew he had refused,” said Isaura, with a low bitter laugh.
“How? who told you?”
“My own good sense told me. One may have good sense, though one is a poor scribbler.”
“Don’t talk in that way; it is beneath you to angle for compliments.”
“Compliments, ah! And so Mr. Vane has refused to come to Paris; never mind, he will come next year. I shall not be in Paris then. Did Colonel Morley see Mr. Vane?”
“Oh, yes; two or three times.”
“He is well?”
“Quite well, I believe—at least Frank did not say to the contrary; but, from what I hear, he is not the person I took him for. Many people told Frank that he is much changed since he came into his fortune—is grown very stingy, quite miserly indeed; declines even a seat in Parliament because of the expense. It is astonishing how money does spoil a man.”
“He had come into his fortune when he was here. Money had not spoiled him then.”
Isaura paused, pressing her hands tightly together; then she suddenly rose to her feet, the colour on her cheek mantling and receding rapidly, and fixing on her startled visitor eyes no longer dim, but with something half fierce, half imploring in the passion of their gaze, said: “Your husband spoke of me to Mr. Vane: I know he did. What did Mr. Vane answer? Do not evade my question. The truth! the truth! I only ask the truth!”