“And love is warfare, three times out of four. Anyway, it is for you to decide, Zoe. I do wish you had never seen the man. He is not what he seems. He is a poor adventurer, and a bundle of deceit.”
“You are very hard on him. You don't know all.”
“No, nor a quarter; and you know less. There, dear, dry your eyes and fight against it. After all, you know you are mistress of the situation. I'll settle it for you, which way you like.”
“You will? Oh, Fanny, you are very good!”
“Say indulgent, please. I'm not good, and never will be, if I can possibly help. I despise good people; they are as weak as water. But I do like you, Zoe Vizard, better than any other woman in the world. That is not saying very much; my taste is for men. I think them gods and devils compared with us; and I do admire gods and devils. No matter, dear. Kiss me, and say, 'Fanny, act for me,' and I'll do it.”
Zoe kissed her, and then, by a truly virginal impulse, hid her burning face in her hands, and said nothing at all.
Fanny gave her plenty of time, and then said, kindly, “Well, dear?”
Then Zoe murmured, scarce audibly, “Act—as if—I loved him.”
And still she kept her face covered with her hands. Fanny was anything but surprised at this conclusion of the struggle. She said, with a certain alacrity, “Very well, I will: so now bathe your eyes and come in to supper.”
“No, no; please go and make an excuse for me.”