The Conte laughed.
“Delightful!” he cried. “Jealousy. And of her dearest, most confidential friend.”
“No,” said the lady quietly. “I have only one confidential friend.”
“Meaning me. Thank you, dearest.”
“Meaning myself,” said the lady to herself. Then haughtily: “Yes?”
This to one of the servants who brought in a card on a waiter.
“Caller?” exclaimed the Conte. “Here, stop a moment; I’ve an engagement;” and he hurried out through the back drawing-room, while the lady’s eyes closed a little more as she took the card from the silver waiter, and sat up, listening intently, as she said in a low voice—
“Where is Mr Dale?”
“In the library, my lady.”
There was a pause, during which the Contessa turned her head toward the back room, and let her eyes pass over the preparations that had been made for her sitting.