“You are quite clever enough, madam, to convince every separate person you talk to of the justice of your claim, but with the general public, with society, the bar, the bench, all reason, sympathy, and probably law, would be against you. I don’t think you could get a firm of standing to take up your case.”
“Don’t you?” said Chloris, raising her eyebrows incredulously, while her face assumed an expression of deep cunning. “And what if I assure you that I have prepared for this contingency by making a firm of standing ready to my hand?”
George suddenly remembered the utter and rather inexplicable devotion to her interests shown by Messrs. Smith and Angelo, and listened with curiosity as she went on:
“Four years ago a son of old Angelo’s went mad about me, and robbed his father to make me handsome presents. The old man was dreadfully cut up. I learnt the facts, and knowing the reputation of the firm was good, I earned the eternal gratitude of the father by throwing over the son, and making restitution to the extent of some four thousand pounds. Do you understand?”
“I see that you have gained a solicitor devoted to your interests; but I maintain that it would be directly against your interest to put pressure on the Colonel. I know him; I know that he would resist your claim with such influence to back him as even you could not stand against; and I know on the other hand”—George lowered his voice, and spoke with slow significance—“that if you are content to let things remain as they are, he will be quite ready to make private redress by making such provision for you, when you choose to ask for it, as even the daughter of a princess would not refuse.”
Chloris was interested to the extent of evidently occupying herself with a mental calculation.
“Ask for it! I could claim it!” she said defiantly.
“But as a claim it would not be allowed.”
Chloris shrugged her shoulders, but she was impressed. She knew that her charms had passed their zenith, and a handsome provision for the future was not to be despised. George was satisfied with the impression he had made, and extremely anxious to be rid of her. In fact they both felt glad that the reappearance of the warder now brought to a close a visit which had been prompted by no very kindly feeling. At the last Chloris seemed to feel this, and she lingered at the door to say, in a voice that had some womanly kindliness and some self-reproach in it:
“I am sorry I came, for I have done you no good. I was thinking of nothing but my child—my disappointment. Forgive me. I am not bad all through, and I thank you for what you have done for her. We can feel for each other now, you and I, different as we are: we have both lost her. If I have had any hand in bringing you here, forgive me, for my life is broken too.”