He set down his glass, and his fingers trifled for a moment with its stem. His expression was inscrutable.
“Surely,” he said, “you are not serious!”
“I am serious,” she declared, “and you know that I am.”
“You are afraid of me,” he repeated softly. “I wonder why.”
She looked him straight in the eyes.
“Because,” she said, “I did you once a very grievous wrong. Because I know that you have not forgiven me. Because I am very sure that all the good that was in you lies slain.”
“By whose hand?” he asked quietly. “No! You need not answer. You know. So do I. Yes, I can understand your fear. But I do not understand why you confess it to me.”
“Nor I,” she answered. “Nor do I understand why I am here—at your bidding, nor why I keep you always by my side whenever you choose to take your place there. Are you a vain man, Wingrave? Do you wish to pose as the friend of a woman whom the world has thought too ambitious to waste time upon such follies? There is the Marchioness! She would do you more credit still.”
“Thank you,” he answered. “I like to choose the path myself when I pass into the maze of follies!”
“You have not yet explained yourself,” she reminded him. “Of all people in world, you have chosen us for your presumptive friends. Why? You hate us both. You know that you do. Is it part of a scheme? Lumley is investing money on your advice, I am allowing myself to be seen about with you more than is prudent—considering all things. Do you want to rake out the ashes of our domestic hearth—to play the part of—melodramatic villain? You are ingenious enough, and powerful enough.”