“Oh—I—” He had heard that question before, in different circumstances. He was standing with his back to the wall. The brilliant picture before him became the mise-en-scène of an opera, the babble of voices its chorus. To his reversed vision, it crowded backward and cohered. And upon its shifting front, upon the wall of light and laughter and beauty, was projected the tragic figure of Nina Randolph.
Thorpe felt that his dark face was visibly paling. A small angry fist seemed to strike his heart, and all his being ached with sudden pity and longing.
A soft hand brushed his. He turned with a start and looked down into the coquettish eyes of his hostess. He noted mechanically that she had a very determined mouth, and that her colour was higher than usual.
“I beg pardon?” he stammered.
“Why you no stay here?” whispered Prudencia.
“Well, I may, you know; my plans are very unsettled.”
“You ever been marry, señor?”
“No, señora.”
“I have; and I love the husband, before; but so many years that ees now. You think ees possiblee keep on love when the other have been dead twenty years?”
“I think so.”