“I do not understand you,” she faltered. “There must be some mistake. I do not even know your name.”
“Your name unfortunately is only too familiar to us, however,” said her visitor remorselessly. “My daughter was engaged to be married to Captain Karey and until he had the misfortune to see you on the stage she was perfectly happy. From that day however, all her misery dated. He was infatuated about you and you lured him on to his death.
“Madam,” said Christine pale with indignation, “you do me a very great wrong. I never encouraged Captain Karey. On the contrary his persistent attentions annoyed me very much.”
“Oh, so you say! so they all say!” said Mrs. Bouvery choking back a sob. “But I don’t believe a word of it. You actresses are all alike; as long as your vanity is satisfied you don’t care what wretchedness you cause to others.”
“Is it possible you really believe that I encouraged a mere boy who must have been at least fifteen years my junior?” said Christine incredulously. “The moment I saw there was the least risk of anything serious, I would have nothing more to do with him. Every one of the presents he tried to give me were returned immediately. What more could I do?”
“You could retire from a profession which is unfit for any woman, you could refuse any longer to make your beauty a snare and a peril to men.”
“I think,” said Christine quietly, but with a ring of indignation in her voice, “you forget that some of the very best of women have been on the stage. Is art to be crippled, and are we all to retire to nunneries, because some men are weak fools and some men vicious knaves?”
“I do not care to argue with you,” said her visitor coldly, “The fact remains that you have spoilt my daughter’s whole life.”
“Indeed I am very sorry for her,” said Christine with a sigh. “I can’t blame myself for what has happened, but I can feel very much grieved about it.”
“Whether you blame yourself or not,” said Mrs. Bouvery, “Captain Karey’s death will be laid to your account at the last day.”