Mr. Sabin looked keenly across the table. There was something in the girl’s face which he scarcely understood.
“Well, not altogether for the sake of his company, I must confess,” he replied. “He has been useful to me, and he is in the position to be a great deal more so.”
The girl rose up. She came over and stood before him. Mr. Sabin knew at once that something unusual was going to happen.
“You want to make of him,” she said, in a low, intense tone, “what you make of every one—a tool! Understand that I will not have it!”
“Helène!”
The single word, and the glance which flashed from his eyes, was expressive, but the girl did not falter.
“Oh! I am weary of it,” she cried, with a little passionate outburst. “I am sick to death of it all! You will never succeed in what you are planning. One might sooner expect a miracle. I shall go back to Vienna. I am tired of masquerading. I have had more than enough of it.”
Mr. Sabin’s expression did not alter one iota; he spoke as soothingly as one would speak to a child.
“I am afraid,” he said quietly, “that it must be dull for you. Perhaps I ought to have taken you more into my confidence; very well, I will do so now. Listen: you say that I shall never succeed. On the contrary, I am on the point of success; the waiting for both of us is nearly over.”
The prospect startled, but did not seem altogether to enrapture her. She wanted to hear more.