“No, I don’t, Nina. It wouldn’t make the slightest difference to me what people said of you.”
And this was the truth, perhaps the first truth in fact or by inference which either of them had uttered. So far so good. Honors were even. Each of them was aware that the other was a hypocrite, each of them was playing the game of hide and seek, bringing into play all the arts of dissimulation to which the sex is heir. All is fair in love and war. This was both. Under such conditions, to the feminine conscience anything is justifiable. Nina had begun the combat with leisurely assurance; Jane, with a contempt which fortified her against mishap. The manners of each were friendly and confiding, their tones caressing, but neither of them deceived the other and each of them knew that she didn’t. Nina had taken the initiative. She had a mission and in this was at a slight advantage, for Jane had not yet begun to suspect what that mission was. She had made up her mind, feminine fashion, not to believe what Nina wanted her to believe; but before long she began to find that Nina was mixing truth and fiction with such skill that it was difficult to distinguish one from the other.
The dangers of the social jungle develop remarkable perceptions in deer and bird of paradise, but these defensive instincts are not always proof against the craft of the cat tribe. If they were, the cat tribe would long since have ceased to exist as a species. Other things being equal, the stalker of prey has all the advantage. Nina knew that Jane knew that she was lying. So, to gain her point, she was prepared if necessary to use the simple expedient of telling the truth.
Nina was leaning forward, her chin in her hand, her gaze on the rug.
“You’ve heard, I suppose, this story people are telling about Phil and me,” she said in a lower tone.
“No,” said Jane in tones of curiosity. “Is it something very dreadful?”
“I’m afraid it is—at least people seem to think it so. It began with an accident to my motor and ended at a Parlor Heater.”
“A Parlor Heater! Do go on, Nina. I’m immensely interested.”
“Phil and I, on the way home from Egerton’s party, you remember? He went home in my motor. I know people thought it awfully rude of us as the other motors were so crowded—but it just happened so and we started home alone—after all the others had gone. We ran out of oil and had to put up for the night where we could. Unfortunate wasn’t it? We were miles from nowhere and not a gallon of gasoline in sight. The farmer seemed to think we were suspicious characters, but he let us in at last to sit beside his stove until morning. I’m sure he was peeping over the balusters most of the time to be sure we didn’t make off with the family Bible.” Nina laughed at the recollection, a little more loudly than seemed necessary.
“Phil was very sweet about it all. He was so afraid of compromising me, poor fellow. I really felt very sorry for him. The farmer wouldn’t volunteer to help us, so Phil wanted to trudge the five miles through the snow to get the oil. But I wouldn’t let him. I couldn’t, Jane. It was frightfully lonely there. The chauffeur was drunk and I was afraid.”