"Oh, very well,—say on, my dear. You don't mind if I smoke a cigarette?"
As she made no reply he lighted one and sank into the most comfortable chair with a sigh of content.
"At least you owe me something, Barry Quinlevin," she began tensely, trying to keep her voice under control, and announcing her leit motif, so to speak, in her first phrase. "I'm no chattel of yours, no infant any longer, to be bandied about as a dupe in your wild plans for the future. It's my future you're dealing with just as you've dealt with my past——"
"Have ye had any cause to complain of my treatment of ye?" he broke in calmly.
"You've cheated me—lied to me all my life—isn't that enough? Kept me in ignorance of the source of our livelihood—God knows what else—made me a partner in a crime—without my knowledge—made me help you to get dishonest money——"
"Hardly," he said. "It was yer own money."
"I don't believe you," she said icily, "if it was my money you would have gotten it for me—all of it—long ago."
"And lost yerself, my dear, to the Duc de Vautrin," he countered quickly.
She started slightly. That possibility hadn't occurred to her. But she went on rapidly.
"You forget that I heard what you said to Harry—That I know what has been in your heart all these years. I was your decoy and you used me as you pleased, glad of my working, which kept me busy so that I couldn't be inquiring what was going on. You forget that I heard why you wanted me to marry Harry, but I can't forget it—would to God I could—and you'd dare to ask me if I have anything to complain of, knowing all that and knowing that I know it. Do you think I'm a mere piece of furniture without a soul, not to care what my heritage is, not to cherish my traditions——? You've built my life on a lie, destroyed my very identity in a breath, torn down all the sacred idols of my girlhood and young womanhood and ground them under your feet. You!"