Catherine Cabot was an edition of womankind which Dolores doubtless had found hard to read. Velvet-bound was she, gilt-edged, artfully illustrated. The most astute of worldlings might remain unenlightened for many chapters as to the plot of her. Spite, it would seem, was her motivation—spite toward a husband who had depreciated what she was by a deliberate and stubborn over-valuation.
Long she had waited and watched to prove the plot of him as bad as her own. Quite recently she had refused a separation because she wished, not only a divorce, but a discredited husband and a huge, decreed alimony, rather than a collusive settlement. Her engagement of Dolores, her pseudo-kindnesses, her pretended dependence upon the girl in her recent trip South—a trip that had taken her no farther than Philadelphia and been followed by a secret return to a mid-town hotel—were calculated steps toward this end. To-day she had served upon her husband the complaint in a suit for absolute divorce. Dolores Trent, grief now to one woman as to many men, she had named as co-respondent.
The dread announcement was made.
Forgetting the hurry on account of which he had refused to smoke, Holt now busied himself producing a cigar, clipping it and lighting it. Through smoke-clouds he looked across at the notorious girl whom he had whip-lashed with news of fresh notoriety. Seeing that her lips moved, he leaned forward to catch her words.
“Maybe she was not so bad as—— The idea was d’Elie’s. I mustn’t forget that. He suggested that the father of l’enfant terrible might find me congenial—not she. ‘Enough, my clever Henri. I understand.’ I remember distinctly what she said.”
In the midst of her shared memories, she became conscious of the quality of the lawyer’s regard. Her eyes lifted to his.
“You believe that I——”
Perhaps the more staunchly for catching the sag in her voice, he sought to reassure her. “I know that you are guiltless. Do you recall the little toast I gave you one night at dinner? I didn’t say on that occasion that I’d been doubly favored by meeting your kind of a woman twice in my lifetime—the woman who doesn’t need to boast or sparkle or promise—the woman who needs only to be. The first one, Miss Trent, of whom you reminded me, was my mother.”
Dolores was startled. Always before she had suffered because unjustly blamed. Now she was unjustly praised. She did not feel honest. But she must be careful, even with the kindly attorney. She had John, as well as herself, to think of. The fault was not so much his as hers and he must not be blamed.
“Then, too——” Holt had cleared the huskiness from his throat—“I know John Cabot.”