“If I believed there was another—”
Perhaps he saw the fleeting glance she cast toward the car, for he broke off abruptly, and she did not hear what would happen if he believed there was another woman like her in the world. But her pulses were beating furiously. If some one had tried to push her into the mine and she had escaped by a hair’s breadth, she could not have been more inwardly perturbed. Yet there was no outward and visible occasion for it. He was talking calmly and interestingly as he had done the night before, about diamonds. They were not for everybody, he said, but for beauty only. From Cleopatra down to Cleo de Merode it had been the same. The advent of a lovely woman, duchess or actress, into the world affects the diamond market as the sensitive plant is affected by the approach of a human hand. A thousand waves and wheels are set in motion. Dealers, designers, skilled workmen, and common cutter—all feel the magnetic thrill. Even the thieves in the underworld become busier and greater quantities of raw diamonds are stolen. Buyers make hurried journeys to Amsterdam and Antwerp.
Parcels of rare stones change hands. Immense sums are expended on pure chance—as in the case of the famous necklace commenced in France immediately on the advent of Dubarry into Royal favour and afterwards bought by Rohan for Marie Antoinette, becoming the clou of the great Court Scandal. In modern time such beautiful women as Mrs Langtry, Cora Brown-Potter, Gaby Deslys, Pavlova and Edna May had all had their influence on the diamond market and set it moving. Beauty was the pivot round which the diamond market revolved, he said. The jewels that fill shop windows are, it seems, only for ordinary women. For the extraordinary ones, something special must be made. For them the combination of flawless stones, exquisite enamels, and rare design.
It was strangely interesting to hear these things. Loree did not know why they should move her so profoundly, and become all mixed up with the sparkling joys of the flowers in her enchanted garden. Perhaps the fluting of Pan had something to do with it.
When they returned to the car, Mrs Cork had recovered her good humour. Quelch proposed a drive to Alexandersfontein (a sort of Southern Coney Island) and dismissing the chauffeur, took the wheel himself. Loree had the sensation of tasting life very sweet between the lips as they flew along through the cooling air into the heart of a blazing sunset. She knew that the strangely attractive man beside her was more than a little in love with her—and when will such knowledge cease to exhilarate a woman’s blood? The only crumpled rose-leaf in her happy cup was an accident that happened as they dismounted from the car for tea. Quelch stepped on her frock and tore it from its gathers, necessitating her retiral to a dressing-room and the assistance of a maid, who took some time to fix it up. Mrs Cork’s temper appeared to be of uncertain quality and unable to bear strain of any kind, for she looked very sulky at being kept waiting for her tea, and all Loree’s apologies (on her return) and Quelch’s civilities, surmounted by a heavenly tea, could not disperse her gloom. She said that the drive had made her eyes ache, and the sight of strawberries and cream made her sick. For the homeward drive Loree offered her the front seat, but she preferred silence and solitude in the body of the car, and the others did not deny her. When two people are on the brink of an entrancing flirtation, they cannot truthfully “grieve as them that have no hope,” if they are left to themselves. In the warm rushing darkness of the night no word was exchanged between Quelch and Loree, but they advanced quite a long way on the perilous path of forbidden primroses. Arrived at the hotel, Mrs Cork said abruptly:
“You won’t see me again to-night. I’ve got one of my awful headaches and shall go straight to bed!”
They breathed sad sympathy over her, smiling in their hearts. It was plain to see that the poor woman was suffering. Her attractiveness had quite gone, and her skin taken a yellowish pallor with heavy lines about her eyes. Loree was really sorry, but the heart of youth is light, and the troubles of other people do not unduly depress it. Moreover, she was in the throes of the first interesting thing that had happened to her since she married Pat Temple a year ago. She was sure that she was very strong and clever and well able to look after herself, and keep Quelch where he ought to be kept—outside of Pat Temple’s garden of happiness. But it was fascinating to philander over the gate, and would hurt no one who ought not to be hurt.
“I don’t want to make him unhappy, of course,” she murmured virtuously, as she hurried out of her afternoon things and splashed herself with cooling waters. “But if men will go looking for scalps, they must expect a few scars.”
It was past the dinner-hour. She flung on the little black gown and fastened Pat’s pearls in her ears and about her neck. They seemed extraordinary unimaginative ornaments, somehow—not a sparkle or glimmer about them anywhere. More virtuous indignation moved her—this time against the giver of the pearls.
“If I flirt a little it is his fault for leaving me behind in this dull place—while he is enjoying himself.”