She twisted her handkerchief in her hands, then smiled contemptuously.
“It must be the Juliet of last night!” she said.
“Perhaps.”
“Well”—she drew a long breath—“I think I am a match for a common actress, though she be young and pretty!” and she raised her head and turned to him defiantly.
He looked at her with the calm eyes of a connoisseur.
“Yes, I should think so,” he said, blandly. “Certainly, I should think so. A match for half-a-dozen of them. Forgive me if I say that I don’t think there is a more beautiful woman in England than Lady Grace Peyton, or a more charming one!”
She took no notice of the compliment; to her ears there rang a tone of mockery behind the smooth phrases.
“What—what is to be done? What do you advise?” she asked, after a moment’s pause, and with an affected indifference which made him smile.
He puffed a thin line of smoke from his sleek lips and watched it with half-closed eyes.
“Nothing,” he said.