"Do you mean with me?" Her indignant surprise almost convinced him of her ignorance. "Who has told you that?"
She was holding a muff of silver fox, and she gazed down at it, stroking the fur gently, while she waited for him to answer. He noticed that her long slender fingers—she had the hand as well as the figure of one of Botticelli's Graces—were perfectly steady.
"That was the reason that Mary broke her engagement," he responded.
"Did she tell you that?"
"Yes, she told me. She said she knew that you had not meant it—that Alan had lost his head——"
Her voice broke in suddenly with a gasp of outraged amazement. "And you ask me to send Alan away because you are jealous? You ask me this—after—after——" Her attitude of indignant virtue was so impressive that, for a moment, he found himself wondering if he had wronged her—if he had actually misunderstood and neglected her?
"You must see for yourself, Angelica, that this cannot go on."
"You dare to turn on me like this!" She cried out so clearly that he started and looked at the door in apprehension. "You dare to accuse me of ruining Mary's happiness—after all I have suffered—after all I have stood from you——"
As her voice rose in its piercing sweetness, it occurred to him for the first time that she might wish to be overheard, that she might be making this scene less for his personal benefit than for its effect upon an invisible audience. It was the only time he had ever known her to sacrifice her inherent fastidiousness, and descend to vulgar methods of warfare, and he was keen enough to infer that the prize must be tremendous to compensate for so evident a humiliation.
"I accuse you of nothing," he said, lowering his tone in the effort to reduce hers to a conversational level. "For your own sake, I ask you to be careful."