She did not answer. He affected to draw encouragement from her silence.
“Think what it may mean to you, if you refuse. A second lease of protection is not like the first. Disillusioned faith’s a half-hearted mistress. Your term will be short—and again will be shorter—until—”
“You damned old dog!”
She made as if to strike him. He sat quite unmoved.
“A prophet in one’s own country,” he said coolly: “I daresay you’ve heard the adage. You’d reject the unpalatable—keep respectable in spite of me. Try it, that’s all—cast upon the mercies of Turin, good Lord! And what do I offer you in place? To be my confederate in divination—chaste Sybilline—sacred through your calling—we’d make a fortune between us in a year.”
She hardly seemed to hear, muttering:—
“Can it be true she’s so heartless—so forgetful—and him sickening to the death for her!”
He pricked alert.
“Him? Who?” he asked low, as if responding to a confidence.
“Who?” she repeated, staring before her—“why, him upstairs—Saint-Péray.”