"I am sorry you did not meet her," Lennox continued. "You might have lent her a hand."
"Professionally, you mean?"
"Yes."
"I might have her sing here," replied Mrs. Austen, who would have seen Cassy hanged first.
Lennox considered the picture: Mrs. Austen in the rôle of shepherdess, herding for Cassy's benefit the flock of sheep that society is. But the picture did not detain him. He stood up.
"That would be very good of you. Please tell Margaret I am sorry she has a headache and that I will look in on her to-morrow."
No you won't, thought Mrs. Austen, who said: "Yes, do."
In a moment, when he had gone, she looked again in the mirror. It showed her a woman who would not steal, unless she could do so undetectably; a woman who would not forge, because she did not know how. Crimes ridiculous or merely terrific she was too shrewd to commit. But there are crimes that the law cannot reach. There are cards, too, that fate may deal.
After looking at the woman, she looked at the cards. They were dreamlike. Even so, they needed stacking. Mrs. Austen arranged them carefully, ran them up her sleeve and floated to the room where Margaret waited.
As she entered, Margaret turned to her. Her face had that disquieting loveliness which Spanish art gave to the Madonna, the loveliness of flesh eclipsed certainly by the loveliness of the soul, but still flesh, still lovely.