“No,” she said at length, “I shall never wish myself back with him—never—unless, of course, that you should leave me.”
“What foolish talk. As though I could leave you. But are you sure you have told the truth?”
“Why, yes. I never did love him as I love you.”
Irene may have spoken the truth, but there were times when the manly form of Scott Wilmer would cross her vision, and his fine hazel eyes look down into her very soul, reading all the deception there, and the very honesty of his gaze would cause a shiver to pass over her; but she would drive away the shadow by calling before her the handsomest face she had ever seen—that of her betrayer, and she would not have retraced her steps if she could.
“Rene, darling,” Max said, with his gaze fixed on the rich carpet, “you should talk to that papa of yours. I saw him play a game of cards last night that ran very much out of his luck. He lost five hundred dollars.”
“He did? He had better take care, or I will talk to him,” said Irene angrily.
“I guess he will do about as he pleases.”
“No, he won’t; if he knows what is good for him.”
“Have you any power over him?”
“Yes; more than he would like to own.”