"Oh, I can do better than that!" she said, half contemptuously, as she wiped the paint and powder from her face with her handkerchief. "But it isn't the make-up I shall rely on so much as the acting. I flatter myself that I can play the part to a nicety. It mustn't be overdone, you know; and it mustn't be taken too slowly. Oh, I know! You leave it to me, Mr. Ambrose!"
"That's just what I meant to do!" he said. "I place every confidence in you, my dear Lottie!"
"And you'll come and see me in prison on visiting days?" she said, with a smile that was rather serious.
"Yes," he said, laughing lightly, "I'll come and see you, and bring you a tract. But all that is nonsense! There is not the slightest risk of such a thing. Once you have played your part, you shall be off to Paris and take your fling for a month or two."
"All this will cost you something," she said, thoughtfully.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"It isn't a question of pounds, shillings and pence on such an occasion as this," he said; "and as to money, I dare say Blair will be only too glad to pay all the expenses when he comes to his senses, and finds who it is that has saved him from committing social suicide. He will owe us a deep debt of gratitude, Lottie."
"I hope he'll think so," she said, rather doubtfully, and with a little shudder; "if he shouldn't—well, I don't think Paris will be far enough off for me, and as for you"—and she smiled strangely and significantly—"well, I wouldn't care to insure your life, Mr. Austin Ambrose."
He laughed as he shook hands with her.
"My dear Lottie, Blair will know that we have been his best friends, and will be grateful accordingly. Good-night. Mind, not a word to a soul!"