“I will tell you that your love for Armstrong is a mockery and snare, that you throw down the guage, and that I will save him from you yet.”
“And how? Bring some false charge against him to my husband? Set about some lying slander on my name?”
“Bring you to public shame—bring disgrace upon the head of the man I love? No, madam. You refuse my offer?—No: you will hear me. Give him up, as I will for his sake—woman—sister—am I to plead in vain?”
The Contessa pointed to the door.
“Yes,” said Cornel quietly. “I will go, but I will save him yet.”
“Then it is war,” muttered the Contessa, whose eyes contracted as she stood listening as if expecting a return; “and you will save him? Yes: to take to your heart? Not yet.”
She hurried to the window as the faint sound of the closing door was heard, and held aside the curtain, so as to gaze down the wide place, and see Cornel take Pacey’s arm, and, as if weak and suffering, walk slowly away.
“Bah! What is she to me, with her pitiful schoolgirl love?—‘Save him yet!’”
She crossed the room and rang. Then, throwing herself into a lounge, she waited till the servant entered.
“Is your master in?”