“A truce to your euphemism, Mr. Ashley. I am curious to learn what possible lever you can possess.”
“I shall not delay the information. I have in mind a lever whose potency you can readily appreciate. I refer to the Count de Gonzaga.”
“Good heavens! What do you mean?” In awed, whispered tones.
“I think you grasp my meaning,” Jack returns, coolly. “Or will it be necessary for me to relate another fairy tale, concerning a beautiful woman who posed successfully for a time as the widow of an enormously wealthy American ship-owner?”
“You would not dare—”
“I would dare do several things, if the occasion for unusual trepidity seemed to arise. Besides, the vaunted brotherhood of man—”
“The vaunted brotherhood of man would lead you to betray a defenseless woman—one who never did you aught of harm, would it?” pants Isabel.
“My dear Mrs. Harding, consider how easily you may avert such an unfortunate denouement. I don’t care a rap about Count Gonzaga. Conceding your natural charms, which are legion, the count’s affections are undoubtedly centered in your supposed fortune. That is usually the principal item in the matrimonial calculations of European nobility that seeks alliance with American beauty. As a matter of fact, I should rather enjoy seeing Gonzaga thrown down, if you will excuse the slang. Come. A bargain is a bargain!”
There is a silence. Isabel is presumably weighing the situation carefully, and she disappoints Ashley by rising and remarking: “I think I will return to the ball-room, Mr. Ashley, if you will kindly escort me.”
“One moment,” detains Jack. Isabel resumes her seat. “Have you carefully considered the probable result of your silence?”