He made no reply.
"Then I can't help you. There is nothing in the world denser than a lover. The object of his affections is large in his eyes, so large that the focus is blurred. He can't see her—that's all. Hermia was terror-stricken and you were not aware of it. She knew that she was clean and that you were, and the dirt that threatened her threatened her idyl, too."
She stopped abruptly and looked past him.
"I'm afraid I've said too much, Mr. Markham. That is because I see how foolish you have been—both of you in this affair. It's none of my business."
She fingered the clipping on the table and went on vigorously.
"As to this infamous story that they are telling, I shall find means to stop it. How, I don't know just yet. This paper shall print a retraction. I'll manage that. Olga Tcherny—"
"I beg of you—"
"Olga Tcherny's career in New York is ended. She shall never enter my house, or the house of any of my friends. That play was a lie, written with a motive. She has used me shamefully—shamefully—made me an accomplice, and placed me in the undesirable position of sponsor for her villainies."
She rose, walked to the window and looked out upon the Avenue, her lips taking firmer lines of resolution. He watched her in silence, and when she spoke her tones were short and decisive.
"With your permission, Mr. Markham," she said at last, "as Hermia's friend and yours, I shall deny this story in every detail. You must provide me with an alibi."