"Yes."
"What happened, then? You didn't quarrel with her?"
"Nothing at all happened," he assured her. "We parted the best of friends. It wasn't that."
"Then what? Remember that I am your friend, John dear. Tell me everything."
He poured himself more wine and drank it.
"I will tell you," he assented. "I went to a little club I belong to on the Adelphi Terrace. I sat down in the smoking room. There was no one there I knew. Some men were talking. They had been to the reception to-night. They were comparing French actresses and English. They spoke first of the French woman, Latrobe, and her lovers; then of Louise. They spoke quite calmly, like men discussing history. They compared the two actresses, they compared their lives. Latrobe, they said, had lovers by the score—Louise only one."
Sophy's hand stole into his. She was watching the twisting of his features. She understood so well the excitement underneath.
"I think I can guess," she whispered. "Don't hurt yourself telling me. Something was said about the prince!"
His eyes blazed down upon her.
"You, too?" he muttered. "Does the whole world know of it and speak as if it did not matter? Sophy, is it true? Speak out! Don't be afraid of hurting me. You call yourself my friend. I've been down, looking at the outside of her house. I dared not go in. There's a fire burning in my soul! Tell me if it is true!"