“She did herself injustice. When it came to losing your money for you, she made you insist.”
“Ah, you noticed that too?” cried Pickering, still quite unconfused. “I felt as if the whole table were staring at me; but her manner was so gracious and reassuring that I supposed she was doing nothing unusual. She confessed, however, afterwards, that she is very eccentric. The world began to call her so, she said, before she ever dreamed of it, and at last finding that she had the reputation, in spite of herself, she resolved to enjoy its privileges. Now, she does what she chooses.”
“In other words, she is a lady with no reputation to lose!”
Pickering seemed puzzled; he smiled a little. “Is not that what you say of bad women?”
“Of some—of those who are found out.”
“Well,” he said, still smiling, “I have not yet found out Madame Blumenthal.”
“If that’s her name, I suppose she’s German.”
“Yes; but she speaks English so well that you wouldn’t know it. She is very clever. Her husband is dead.”
I laughed involuntarily at the conjunction of these facts, and Pickering’s clear glance seemed to question my mirth. “You have been so bluntly frank with me,” I said, “that I too must be frank. Tell me, if you can, whether this clever Madame Blumenthal, whose husband is dead, has given a point to your desire for a suspension of communication with Smyrna.”
He seemed to ponder my question, unshrinkingly. “I think not,” he said, at last. “I have had the desire for three months; I have known Madame Blumenthal for less than twenty-four hours.”