“Oh, you men, you men!” cried the baroness, sweeping her little white hands towards the ceiling, and wringing them above her head with a tragic gesture. She turned upon me suddenly, with an admirable burst of passion and feeling. “Captain Fyffe, I am a woman of the world; I am expérimentée—unhappily for me, too, too bitterly experienced. Believe me, I already have the very poorest opinion of your sex. I beseech you not to lower it further.”
“The most casual inquiry,” I answered, “if you should care to make it, will confirm every word I have so far spoken. And now I need detain you little longer. It is a terrible thing to say to a lady, but it must be said. It is all the more terrible to say, because I had at one time a sentimental worship for that poor creature who has proved herself so often to be unworthy of any honest man's regard. No lady who knows the reputation of Miss Constance Pleyel, or who, being warned of her reputation, declines to test the truth of the warning and remains her friend, can be permitted to associate, to my knowledge, with anybody for whom I entertain the slightest regard or esteem.”
“Do I understand you to threaten me, Captain Fyffe?” asked the baroness. “You must permit me for a moment to instruct you. My position in society is secure enough to enable me to defend any protégée of mine against any insinuation which Captain Fyffe may make.”
“I make no insinuation,” I returned. “I lay plain facts before you. I will send you by messenger, within an hour, the names and addresses of a score of people who know the facts of the case. You shall, if you choose, employ an agent, whose charges I will defray, and whose report I will never ask to see.”
“Thank you, sir,” she answered. “I do not spy upon the people to whom I profess to give my friendship.”
That was perhaps as heroic a lie as even a lady of the baroness's profession ever uttered; but at that time I was not master of the facts of the case, and the little woman spoke with so much dignity and nature that she imposed upon me. I was really half ashamed of having suggested to her a course which only a minute before seemed quite natural.
“Madame,” I said, “the position is a peculiar one, and it cannot be encountered by ordinary means. I accept without reserve the declaration you offer of your belief in Miss Pleyel's innocence. But then, you see, unhappily, I know the whole story, and I am forced, however unwillingly, to offer you an ultimatum.”
“Pray let me hear it,” she answered, in a tone of sarcasm.
“It is briefly this,” I said. “It is impossible that the Baroness Bonnar should retain her association with Miss Pleyel and with Lady Rollinson at the same time.”
“You guarantee that?” asked the baroness. “May I ask what means you propose to adopt?”