"If you will deign to grant me leave," she said, with gentle submission.
"It is not in my power to grant or to refuse."
"You will not betray me—to the police?"
"I have never betrayed a woman in my life."
"Or to Lady Blakeney?"
He made no answer.
"Or to Lady Blakeney?" she insisted.
Then, as he still gave no answer, she began to plead with passionate earnestness.
"What could she gain—or you—by her knowing that I am that unfortunate, homeless waif, without kindred and without friends, Theresia Cabarrus—the beautiful Cabarrus!—once the fiancée of the great Tallien, now suspect of trafficking with her country's enemies in France . . . and suspect of being a suborned spy in England! . . . My God, where am I to go? What am I to do? Do not tell Lady Blakeney, milor! On my knees I entreat you, do not tell her! She will hate me—fear me—despise me! Oh, give me a chance to be happy! Give me—a chance—to be happy!"
Again she had paused and placed her hand on his arm. Once more she was looking up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, her full red lips quivering with emotion. And he returned her appealing, pathetic glance for a moment or two in silence; then suddenly, without any warning, he threw back his head and laughed.