“Ah!” he remarked quietly, “you come now to a more interesting subject.”
“Yes?”
“Frankly, I do not progress at all.”
“So far as you have gone?”
“If,” he said, “I were to take pen and paper and write down, at this moment, my conclusions so far as I have been able to form any, I fancy that they would make evil reading. Permit me!”
They stood for a few minutes before the long sideboard. A footman had poured champagne into their glasses, and Lady Ruth talked easily enough the jargon of the moment. But when they turned away, she moved slowly, and her voice was almost a whisper.
“Tell me this,” she said, “is he really as hard and cold as he seems? You have lived with him now for four years. You should know that, at least.”
“I believe that he is,” Aynesworth answered. “I can tell you that much, at least, without breach of faith. So far as one who watches him can tell, he lives for his own gratification—and his indulgence in it does not, as a rule, make for the happiness of other people.”
“Then what does he want with us?” she asked almost sharply. “I ask myself that question until—I am terrified.”
Aynesworth hesitated.