"Nonsense, nonsense, child. You've got Claremanagh. You'll always have him," he soothed her. "This is some passing trouble. It will blow over. Tell me all about it. But no, first you must have breakfast. You haven't had bite or sup, I'll bet!"
History repeated itself. Again his handkerchief was out. He wiped her eyes with it. He mopped them. How long and dark her lashes were, wet and clinging together! He bent over her, and kissed her forehead. It was hot, and she smelled like a ripe, delicious peach. But his pulses hardly tingled. He was too sorry for her, however, to analyze his own feelings much, or even think of himself, although after years the Adored One—married, and belonging to another man—was in his arms!
Of course she hadn't had breakfast, she said. She didn't want breakfast. The very idea of it made her sick. She had been awake all night, and had been dressed—without a maid to help her—since seven. She was just one bunch of raw, aching nerves! But somehow Jack was able to soothe her a little, as Pat, at his best, could never have done, because she loved him too wildly. Jack got her to the sofa, her back to the door, so that the waiter bustling in with breakfast should not see the tear-stained face. Soon there were cushions behind her shoulders; the blinds were pulled half down; there was a cool, dewy rose in her hand. Then, when the waiter had gone, she was sipping hot coffee with cream in it and (on one knee beside the sofa) Jack was feeding her with bits of toasted and buttered roll. In spite of herself, Juliet felt better. She didn't want to feel better, but she did! And she had drunk nearly a cupful of coffee before Jack let her begin to talk.
Having begun, however, she told him everything. It all came out with a rush, and Jack listened in silence. Not once did he interrupt, and, fast as she spoke (she could not control her speech to slowness), she thought that he was judging, classifying each incident, considering how one bore upon another.
He did not give away his own secret of yesterday: that he had seen Lyda Pavoya go into the house, and that he had known she must be hidden somewhere in the room while he and Defasquelle were in Claremanagh's study. There was nothing to be gained by telling the poor girl that. She might even be aggravated, by the additional proof against Pavoya, into accusing the woman as a thief! And the more he thought, the more inclined he was to advise against an open scandal.
"So you see why I wanted to put on mourning for my dead happiness," Juliet finished. "You said this was a 'passing trouble.' But you can't say that now, can you?"
"Yes. I can and do," Jack maintained stoutly, for her sake wholly, not for Claremanagh's. He began to believe, in his heart, that this generous, loving girl had been badly "let down," between the Duke and the Polish dancer. Nevertheless, it was still only fair to give "Pat" (as Juliet called him) the benefit of the doubt, just as he had urged yesterday. "You say yourself that, judging from his manner when the box was opened, and when you spoke about the clasp, Claremanagh was as surprised as you were at the false pearls being there."
"Yes. Of course I don't accuse him of 'stealing' the real ones himself, as he so cruelly pretended I did. But he must have had this copy made for Pavoya. Probably she thought at first that she had the true pearls, and when she found out how she'd been tricked, she made up her mind to turn the tables on Pat. Or else she saw a way to humble me—his wife. Yes, that must be it! I'm glad—glad I wore the horrid imitation rope last night. I hardly knew why I did it, unless it was for a kind of bluff. But I see now, it was more like inspiration. If I choose to stick to it that I have the real pearls, she can't get much fun out of wearing them, can she? People will believe me, instead of her, if it comes to open defiance."
"It won't come to that, from Pavoya, and it oughtn't from you, I think," said Jack. "My theory is rather different from yours."
"What is it, for heaven's sake?"