“Go to blazes!” he called after her.
“Blaise’s? It’s not,” she answered. “It’s my own home. I only rented it to him.”
IX
But she thought it all over later. She was Mrs. Alexis Triona, spoken to, invited to many of the homes of the gentry. Here was John Briggs, her husband, a chauffeur, likely to be arrested at any time for trespassing on private precipices. Then the truth might come out! What would the county families say to that? Something must be done.
She went out into the sweet-scented June night, to the highly perfumed garage, where he slept.
X
“Alexis!” she cried.
“Name of John Briggs,” he answered candidly.
“Never again!” she said. “Alexis Triona, when you try on a new name and it suits, wear it.”
She was so bright that her brilliance would have dimmed the Celestial Hierarchy or Broadway at midnight.