“He is a wonderful man—a great, splendid man,” cried Yvonne fiercely. “It is I—Yvonne Lestrange—who proclaim it to the world. I cannot bear to see him suffer. I———”
“Then, why do you———”
“Ah, you would say it, eh? Well, there is no answer. Poof! Perhaps it will not be so bad as we think. Come! I am no longer uneasy. See! I am very calm. Am I not an example for you? Sit down. We will wait together.”
They sat far apart, each filled with dark misgivings, though radically opposed in their manner of treating the situation. Mrs Desmond was cold with apprehension. She sat immovable, tense. Yvonne sank back easily in a deep, comfortable chair and coolly lighted a cigarette. It would have been remarked by a keen observer that her failure to offer one to her visitor was evidence of an unwonted abstraction. As a matter of fact, inwardly she was trembling like a leaf.
“I suppose there is nothing to do,” said Mrs Desmond in despair, after a long silence. “Poor Lydia will never forgive herself.”
Yvonne blew rings of smoke toward the ceiling.
“I dare say you think I am an evil person, Mrs Desmond.”
“Curiously, Mrs Brood, I have never thought of you in that light. Your transgressions are the greater for that reason.”
“Transgressions? An amiable word, believe me.”
“I did not come here, however, to discuss your actions.”