Mr. Sabin looked across the table. Lucille had indeed all the appearance of a woman thoroughly at peace with the world and herself. Brott was talking to her in smothered and eager undertones. The Prince was waiting for an opportunity to intervene. Mr. Sabin looked into Brott’s white strong face, and was thoughtful.
“It is a great power—the power of my sex,” Lady Carey continued, with a faint, subtle smile. “A word from Lucille, and the history book of the future must be differently written.”
“She will not speak that word,” Mr. Sabin said. Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders. The subtlety of her smile faded away. Her whole face expressed a contemptuous and self-assured cynicism.
“You know her very well,” she murmured. “Yet she and I are no strangers. She is one who loves to taste—no, to drink—deeply of all the experiences of life. Why should we blame her, you and I? Have we not the same desire?”
Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette.
“Once, perhaps,” he remarked. “You must not forget that I am no longer a young man.”
She leaned towards him.
“You will die young,” she murmured. “You are not of the breed of men who grow old.”
“Do you mean to turn my head?” he asked her, with a humorous smile.
“It would be easier,” she answered, “than to touch your heart.”