He winced and made no reply.
“Pshaw!” she said, scorn suddenly showing. “Don’t you think I guessed? Gulling a few travellers in the post-houses with a brawling impersonation! Suppose a million should think George Gordon the tasteless roustabout ruffian you make him out? What do you gain? One of these days, some tourist friend of his—Mr. Hobhouse, for instance; he used to be a great traveller—will put a sharp end to your play.”
“I’ll risk that!” he threw her. “And I’d risk more!”
“How you hate him!”
He laughed—a hard, dare-devil sound. “Haven’t I cause enough?”
“Not so far as I know. But I wish you luck, if the game pleases you. It’s nothing to me.”
“It was something to you, once,” he said, “wasn’t it?”
She smiled amusedly. “How tragic you always were! He was never more to me than that”—she snapped her fingers. “Constancy is too heavy a rôle. I always preferred lighter parts. I am going to play in America. Why don’t you turn stroller and act to some purpose? Why not try New York?”
While she spoke her tone had changed. It had become softer, more musical. Her lashes drooped with well-gauged coquetry.
“Look,” she said, in a lower key; “am I as handsome as I used to be at Drury Lane—when you said you’d like to see the world with me?”