For she had deliberately planned at whatever sacrifice of truth to implant distrust and aversion toward Randal Ducie in the mind of this girl of high ideals; to remove her for a time from the sphere of his influence and the opportunity of explanation; in the interval to supplant him in her estimation with others of carefully vaunted attributes. By the time Hildegarde Dean should return from Saint Simon’s Island she would not tolerate his presence, and in the humiliation of her contempt Randal Ducie might find a solace in recurring to the page of that sweet old story, albeit he had so hardily declared the book was closed.
“It is Randal Ducie,” Paula repeated. “You know long ago,—is that front window closed—these chauffeurs hear everything if one is not careful,—well, long ago when I was with my grandmother,—we lived at Ingleside, Ran Ducie and I were engaged. Did you know that?”
“I have heard it,” said Hildegarde, her face tense and troubled, her eyes unseeing and dreamily fixed.
“You have heard, too, that I threw him over, having the opportunity to make a wealthy match.”
“Ye-es,” admitted Hildegarde, embarrassed, “people say anything, you know. They gossip so awfully.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Floyd-Rosney, looking out pathetically at the budding trees of the similitude of a forest as the car swung down the broad, smooth curves, “it was the other way about. It was he who changed his mind. Then I had the opportunity of the grand match, the first time I ever was in New Orleans—and I took it out of pique. A girl is such a poor, silly, little fool.”
Hildegarde was silent. There was so strong an expression of negation, of condemnation, of doubt on her face that Paula went on precipitately.
“Of course, I wasn’t in the least justified.”
“And you realized that?” said Hildegarde.
“You see, I didn’t love my husband. You don’t understand these things, child. He was kind, in his way, and rich, and talented, and handsome——”