"As lovely, perhaps, as Mademoiselle de Marcherand, of whom I have heard, or as Mistress Ann Nutley yonder? Or as lovely as Jennifer?"
Philip took a false step.
"Cleone, surely you are not jealous of little Jenny?" he cried.
She drew herself up.
"Jealous? What right have I to be jealous? You are nothing to me, Mr. Jettan! I confess that once I—liked you. You have changed since then. You cannot deny that you have made love to a score of beautiful women since you left home. I do not blame you for that. You are free to do as you please. What I will not support is that you should come to me with your proposal, having shown me during the time that you have spent in England that I am no more to you than Ann Nutley, or Julie de Marcherand. 'To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear,' was it not? Very pretty, sir. And now I intrigue you for the moment. I cannot consider myself flattered, Mr. Jettan."
Philip had grown pale under his paint.
"Cleone, you wrong me! It is true that I have trifled harmlessly with those ladies. It is the fashion—the fashion you bade me follow. There has never been aught serious betwixt any woman and me. That I swear!"
"You probably swore the same to M. de Foli-Martin?"
"When I had given him the satisfaction he craved, yes."
"I suppose he believed you?"