"Dare? Why not? Don't people tell you the truth here in London, then?"
She rose a little unsteadily to her feet, motioning him toward the door, and moving toward the bell. Suddenly she sank back into her former place, breathless and helpless.
"Why do you waste your breath?" he asked calmly. "We are alone here, and I—we know the truth!"
She sat quite still, shivering a little.
"Do we? Tell me, then, because I am curious—tell me why you are so sure of what you say?"
"The world has it," he replied, "that you are the mistress of the Prince of Seyre. I came to London to satisfy myself as to the truth of that report. Do you believe that any man living, among that audience last night, could watch the play and know that you passed, night after night, into your bed-chamber to meet your lover with that look upon your face—you are a clever actress, madam—and believe that you were a woman who was living an honest life?"
"That seems impossible to you?" she demanded.
"Utterly impossible!"
"And to John?"
"I am speaking for myself and not for my brother," Stephen replied. "Men like him, who are assailed by a certain madness, are best left alone with it. That is why I came to you to bargain, if I could. Is there anything that you lack—anything which your own success and your lover, or lovers, have failed to provide for you?"