She uttered that last sentence with a mock fierceness that ended in laughter. But she could not hide from her friend the intense seriousness from which these expressions had sprung.
Before Mrs. Diggs could answer, a servant entered the room by one of the draped doorways leading into the salons beyond. He was not the butler, who had so admirably served them at dinner, but a footman, charged with other special offices. He handed Claire a card, which she read and tossed aside. The next moment she dismissed him by a slight motion of the hand.
"Let me see that card," said Mrs. Diggs. "Has anybody called whom I know?"
Claire was looking straight into the tumbled, lurid logs of the hearth.
"Yes, you know him, of course," she said. "It was only Stuart Goldwin. I am not at home to-night. Not to any one except you, I mean. I gave orders."
A silence ensued. Mrs. Diggs presently made one of her plunges. "Claire, they say that Goldwin is madly in love with you."
She gave a sharp turn of the neck, fixing her eyes on her friend's face. "That is all they say, I hope. They can't say—well, you understand what they can not say."
"That you care for him? Well, no.... You have been very discreet. You have arranged wonderfully. Very few women could have done it with the same nicety."
Claire threw back her head, with a haughty, fleeting smile. "Any woman could have done it who felt safe—perfectly safe, as I feel."
"You mean that this grand Goldwin, who sways the stock-market, can't quicken your pulse by one degree."