“Here,” she said, “it is different. The Prince and he are ancient rivals, and Raoul de Brouillac is no longer his friend. Muriel, I am afraid of what may happen.”
Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.
“He is no fool,” she said in a low tone. “He will not come here with a magistrate’s warrant and a policeman to back it up, nor will he attempt to turn the thing into an Adelphi drama. I know him well enough to be sure that he will attempt nothing crude. Lucille, don’t you find it exhilarating?”
“Exhilarating? But why?”
“It will be a game played through to the end by masters, and you, my dear woman, are the inspiration. I think that it is most fascinating.”
Lucille looked sadly into the fire.
“I think,” she said, “that I am weary of all these things. I seem to have lived such a very long time. At Lenox I was quite happy. Of my own will I would never have left it.”
Lady Carey’s thin lips curled a little, her blue eyes were full of scorn. She was not altogether a pleasant woman to look upon. Her cheeks were thin and hollow, her eyes a little too prominent, some hidden expression which seemed at times to flit from one to the other of her features suggested a sensuality which was a little incongruous with her somewhat angular figure and generally cold demeanour. But that she was a woman of courage and resource history had proved.
“How idyllic!” she exclaimed. “Positively medieval! Fancy living with one man three years.”
Lucille smiled.