"Instincts with wings," she purred, "angels by intuition, rhapsodists by occupation, and sirens by inheritance. We're not in the least afraid of you, Mr. Janney."
"I should think not. For my part, if I knew that one of you was camping on my trail, I'd give in at once."
"I'm so glad. It's a pet theory of mine that when a woman really sets her cap for a man he had better give up at once, for she will win him—fortune favoring—in the end. Don't you agree, Mrs. Wray?"
"I've never thought about it, Mrs. Cheyne," said Camilla slowly. "By fortune you mean propinquity?"
"Oh, yes—and other things——" laughingly. "For instance, if I had fallen in love with a man I shouldn't stop to consider. If he was another woman's husband—say your husband, Mrs. Wray—that would only add a new element of interest. The more difficult an undertaking, the greater satisfaction in the achievement."
Camilla looked at her steadily for a moment. "I've never thought that any man ought to be dignified by such extraordinary effort. A husband so easily won away is not worth keeping."
The two women had only met once before. They both smiled, sweetly tolerant, their weapons politely sheathed. Only Cortland Bent, who knew the hearts of both, sensed the difference between them.
"You're very flattering, Rita," he broke in, "especially to the bipeds. You've carefully deprived us of every attribute but legs. But we still have those—and can run."
"But you don't," laughed Mrs. Cheyne. "That's just the point. You like the game—all of you. Even your legs aren't proof against flattery."
"Stop, Rita," put in Betty Haviland. "You're letting out all the secrets of the craft."