"Now talk."
She spoke rapidly, and he listened intently. He was weighing her words and searching into their truth. He decided that for some reason of her own she was not lying—and in any case it did not matter if she were not, because he had resources at his command which would enable him to test the information, and if it were true it would be worth the brooch.
"She has been wounded in some way, probably physically, since nothing less material would affect her. Physically and in her vanity—but who can have done it?" the Russian asked himself. "Who is her German correspondent? This I must discover—but since it is the first time she has knowingly given me information, it proves some revenge in her goat's brain. Now is the time to obtain the most."
He encircled her with his arm and kissed her with less contemptuous brutality than usual, and he told her that she was a lovely creature, and the desire of all men—while he appeared to attach little importance to the information she vouchsafed, asking no questions and re-lighting a cigarette. This forced her to be more explicit, and at last all that she meant to communicate was exposed.
"You imagine things, my child," he scoffed. "I would have to have proof—and then if it all should be as you say. Why, that brooch must be yours—for I know that it is out of real love for me that you talk, and I always pay lavishly for—love."
"Indeed, you know that I adore you, Stépan—and that brooch is just what I want. Stanislass has been niggardly beyond words to me lately, and I am tired of all my other things."
"Bring me some proof to the reception to-night. I am not dining, but I shall be there by eleven for a few moments."
She agreed, and then rose to go—but she pouted again and the convex obstiné curve below her under lip seemed to obtrude itself.
"She has gone back to England—your precious bride—I suppose?"
"She has."