"Then, there's nothing new or original in your plot, to excuse its—unpleasantness."
"But if it happens to be true?"
"Many unpleasant things are true, but why rake them up unless there's something great in the theme that makes them worth retelling?"
"It's too soon to judge yet. You haven't heard the best part. What do you think of the story, Princess?"
Marie, who had not ceased caressing the dog, listening with her cheek pillowed on his silken forehead, lifted her face and returned Idina's look. As she raised her head, Mary's heart gave a bound which took her breath away. But it was she whose eyes were dilated, whose face was feverishly flushed, whose breast rose and fell as if a hammer were pounding within. The Princess was white, but scarcely whiter than usual. Her lips were pale, and rather dry, as if she had been motoring in a chilly wind. She was smiling; and if the smile were slightly strained and photographic, perhaps only one who watched her in the anxiety of love would have felt the subtle difference.
"I'm afraid Angelo's right," she said. "It's not a particularly original plot. And—forgive me—your heroine isn't of a very interesting type, is she? Intriguing, cold, ambitious, catty. One reads of women who give themselves to men without love, but—they don't seem natural, at least to me. I believe you must be mistaken in thinking your plot is a true story."
"I can prove its truth," said Idina, quietly. "At least Miss Jewett can. She has been getting the materials. That's her business. She's celebrated for it in America."
"Then I daresay you can work this up into something worth reading, for a certain sort of book," Marie answered. "But—just in the telling it isn't quite—quite—well, Angelo and I can stand it of course, but Mary—I must think of her, you know. And I don't see how our opinion can be of much use to you and Miss Jewett. So what is the use——"
"Of going on?" Idina caught her up, in a voice of iron or steel. "But I particularly want Angelo's opinion as to what the end of the story should be. It's for a man to judge. If it bores you to listen, and you don't think it's proper for Miss Grant——" She paused significantly, and her look flung venom. But she had not fully counted on her cousin's loyalty to his wife, his indifference, almost amounting to dislike at last, for herself.
"Don't you feel, Idina," he interposed with a deadly quietness she knew to be a danger-signal, "that any story which—er—bores my wife had better be left untold in her house? If you really wish to have my opinion on this plot of which you think so much, write the rest out for me, and I'll let you have my verdict."