A certain almost silent and always high-bred dominance over her existence she accepted as the inevitable, even while she fretted helplessly. Without him, she would be tossed, a broken butterfly, into the gutter. She knew her London. No one would pick her up unless to break her into smaller atoms and toss her away again. The freedom he allowed her after all was wonderful. It was because he disdained interference.
But there was a line not to be crossed—there must not even be an attempt at crossing it. Why he cared about that she did not know.
“You must be like Cæsar’s wife,” he said rather grimly, after an interview in which he had given her a certain unsparing warning.
“And I am nobody’s wife. What did Cæsar’s wife do?” she asked.
“Nothing.” And he told her the story and, when she had heard him tell it, she understood certain things clearly.
Mademoiselle Vallé was an intelligent, mature Frenchwoman. She presented herself to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless for inspection and, in ten minutes, realized that the power to inspect and sum up existed only on her own side. This pretty woman neither knew what inquiries to make nor cared for such replies as were given. Being swift to reason and practical in deduction, Mademoiselle Vallé did not make the blunder of deciding that this light presence argued that she would be under no supervision more serious. The excellent Benby, one was made aware, acted and the excellent Benby, one was made aware, acted under clearly defined orders. Milord Coombe—among other things the best dressed and perhaps the least comprehended man in London—was concerned in this, though on what grounds practical persons could not explain to themselves. His connection with the narrow house on the right side of the right street was entirely comprehensible. The lenient felt nothing blatant or objectionable about it. Mademoiselle Vallé herself was not disturbed by mere rumour. The education, manner and morals of the little girl she could account for. These alone were to be her affair, and she was competent to undertake their superintendence.
Therefore, she sat and listened with respectful intelligence to the birdlike chatter of Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. (What a pretty woman! The silhouette of a jeune fille!)
Mrs. Gareth-Lawless felt that, on her part, she had done all that was required of her.
“I’m afraid she’s rather a dull child, Mademoiselle,” she said in farewell. “You know children’s ways and you’ll understand what I mean. She has a trick of staring and saying nothing. I confess I wish she wasn’t dull.”
“It is impossible, madame, that she should be dull,” said Mademoiselle, with an agreeably implicating smile. “Oh, but quite impossible! We shall see.”