Remotely, in a voice without colour, as though speaking not to him at all but only to herself, she answered:
“That I am the most miserable woman in the world.”
Barouffski’s smile broadened. “Bah! They exaggerated, cara mia. It is the way of the world. Mon Dieu, à qui se fier? You are not at all what they said. You are—how shall I put it—perhaps a bit indiscreet. That is it, a bit indiscreet.” He pointed to the bench. “Will you not seat yourself?”
He was still smiling, but the smile wholly muscular, was one in which the eyes have no part. The “visitors” whom he affected to ridicule, alarmed him. They were, he knew, quite capable of taking Leilah away. Her presence or absence was quite one to him. Only if she departed, so would her purse.
“Will you not?” he repeated.
“I am going in.”
“Certainly, cara mia. It is as it pleases you. But——”
At this Leilah, who had passed him, turned.
“Well, what?”
“You see, cara mia, supposing I had visitors. Supposing rather I had a visitor. We are only supposing, are we not? Bon! Supposing this visitor happened to be what we call an ancienne, an old flame, an inamorata of mine. Supposing that were so. Do you know what you could do?”