"And she pretending to be such a saint all the time," she repeated. "A saint in the company of Luce Abinger!" she laughed coarsely.
Carson's eyes were still closed. He was considering—as well as fury, and surprise, and misery, and four neat brandies become suddenly potent would let him.
Would this woman dare bade up her vile statement with Bramham's name, unless—?... but there must be some explanation. She and Abinger! Oh, God! no! Bram could explain ... she could explain ... if she could not, he would kill her ... he would take her by that long, fair throat——
At that the coldness and calmness of moonlight fell upon him like a pall; his brain cleared; he reflected on the inflamed, furious face opposite him, surveying it deliberately, insultingly, with stony, arrogant eyes. Slowly his handsome lips took on a curve of incomparable insolence and contempt—a look no woman could ever forgive. In that moment Sophie Cornell knew what she was. The colour left her face, and her lips and tongue went dry; She had no words.
His voice was almost gentle.
"It would be scarcely fair to expect a woman of your" (he paused) "inducements—to understand that Miss Chard's reasons for——"
"No," she sneered, hissing like a cobra. "No—of course not—a saint like that! But I know well enough what sort of a man Luce Abinger is—and so do you. His name isn't spelt L-o-o-s-e for nothing."
That arrow quivered in Carson, but he gave no sign, going on deliberately:
"—For knowing Mr. Abinger might be different to your reasons—or shall we say inducements?"
She hated him with her eyes.