‘“Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”’ murmured the theatrical Carl. ‘I must humour him. Never mind, old man. Suppose she is! what does it matter?’
‘Oh, Carl! Carl!’ cried the other, turning upon him and gripping him by both shoulders. ‘I never loved another woman, and I never can. I would have built my hopes of Heaven upon her truth.’
Carl began to think there was something in it.
‘You mean that Mademoiselle Hélène is Miss Allen?’
‘Yes, I said so.’
‘And that you knew her?’
‘We were sweethearts when we were children. We were engaged to be married two years ago. Would you believe it, Carl? would you believe it? I had a letter from her only this morning dated from the old place in the country. Think of the cunning perfidy of it!’
‘How long can she have known Holt?’ asked Carl, rather to himself than Christopher.
‘Why, how can I tell?’ said the musician, groaning. ‘She has deceived me all along.’
There was no present consolation possible, and Carl had the sense to see it. He lit a pipe and watched his unhappy friend sympathetically. Christopher went up and down the room exclaiming here and there against the perfidy of woman. There came an imperious summons at the door.