“He found Lilah,” replied Mrs. Dane sharply. “The artist had promptly blown his brains out when she had sent him about his business, as she naturally did. But Curran’s contest was lost, and so was Curran. He might as well have been Benedict Arnold, from his party’s point of view. He went absolutely to pieces; took to drinking more and more—then drugs—oh, the whole thing was a nightmare!”
“And the artist blew his brains out, you say?”
“Yes, it was too tragic. Lilah was almost in despair, poor child. He left some dreadful note saying that exiles from Paradise had no other home than Hell—and that one of them was taking the shortest cut to get there. The newspapers got hold of it and gave it the most ghastly publicity,—you see, everyone had prophesied such wonderful things about his future!”
“Still, he had dwelt in Paradise,” murmured O’Hara.
“Dwelt? Nonsense—he said that he was an exile!” Mrs. Dane’s voice was distinctly sharp, but O’Hara smiled down at her imperturbably.
“Oh, come. It’s a little difficult to be exiled from a spot where you’ve never set foot, isn’t it? No, I rather fancy that Mrs. Lindsay found consolation in the dark hours by remembering that she had not always been unkind to the poor exile—that in Paradise for a time there had been moonlight and starlight and sunlight—and that other light that never was, on sea or land. It must have helped her to remember that.”
Mrs. Dane dropped her flaming eyes to the fan that shook a little in her jewelled hands. Perhaps it was best to hold the thunder and lightning that she ached to release; after all, it was clearly impossible that he should actually mean the sinister things that he was implying about her incomparable Lilah! It would be an insult to that radiantly serene creature to admit that insult could so much as touch her. She raised defiant eyes to his mocking ones.
“Yes, that’s possible; Lilah is divinely kind to any beggar that crosses her path—it isn’t in her to hurt a fly, and she must have been gracious to that wretched boy until he made it impossible. But here is Monsieur De Nemours and the lady herself! Let’s go into the next room, shall we? Lilah, you lovely wonder, you look sixteen—and young for your age, at that. Let’s see, the Havilands aren’t here yet, and Bob Hyde telephoned that he and Sylvia would be late——”
O’Hara followed the swift, bird-like voice into the next room. By and by it would stop and he and Lilah would have to find words to fill the silence. What words should he choose? He was too tired to be careful—too tired to think; what devilish Fate was thrusting him into a position where he must do both?
She was talking to De Nemours, the shining head tilted back a little, the hushed music of her voice drifting across the room to him like a little breeze. She had on a black frock, slim and straight—not a jewel, not a flower, but all of spring laughed and danced and sang and sparkled in that upturned face. O’Hara’s hand closed sharply on the back of the chair. What if he were wrong—if this were all some ugly trick that his worn-out nerves were playing? After all, Lucia Dane had known her for years, and women’s friendships were notoriously exacting. What did he know of her save that she was lovely? Ah, lovely, lovely to heartbreak, as she stood there laughing up at De Nemours—at once still and sparkling, in that magical way of hers, like sunshine dancing on a quiet pool. Was it some devil in him that made him suspect the angel in her? Sometimes he thought that he must be going mad.