“I say, Dicky, what game do you call that?”
“Last noo dodge for raising the wind,” said the footman, and he went in and closed the door.
“A hurricane, I should say,” muttered Pacey. “Poor little girl, can she face the storm?—I don’t know though—there’s a strength in her that masters me.”
Meanwhile Lady Dellatoria led the way to the boudoir, held aside the portière, and signed to Cornel to enter. Then following, the great velvet curtain was dropped, and they stood face to face, scanning each other’s features, and measuring the one whom a natural instinct taught each to consider the great enemy of her life. Cornel’s heart sank as she stood thus in the presence of her beautiful rival. For the moment, she was ready to sink into one of the luxurious lounges, and sob for very despair as she felt how unlikely it was that Armstrong could still care for the simple homely girl who had come across the wide ocean to save him—him, a willing victim to one who gazed at her with such contempt, and who at last broke the silence.
“Well,” she said, “I have granted your request. Why do you not speak?”
“I was thinking, madam, how beautiful you are.”
Valentina smiled faintly, and raised her eyebrows. It was such an old compliment paid to her.
“You wished to speak to me about some one I know. Have you brought a message? Who are you?”
“I am the poor American girl to whom Armstrong Dale plighted his troth before he left us to make his name and fame.”
The Contessa’s eyes were slightly veiled. It was no message then from him, and she avoided the searching eyes, so full of innocence and truth, that gazed at her, as she said huskily—