“And Madame de Cintré objects,” Newman continued.
“She has been sold once; she naturally objects to being sold again. It appears that the first time they made rather a poor bargain; M. de Cintré left a scanty property.”
“And to whom do they want to marry her now?”
“I thought it best not to ask; but you may be sure it is to some horrid old nabob, or to some dissipated little duke.”
“There’s Mrs. Tristram, as large as life!” cried her husband. “Observe the richness of her imagination. She has not a single question—it’s vulgar to ask questions—and yet she knows everything. She has the history of Madame de Cintré’s marriage at her fingers’ ends. She has seen the lovely Claire on her knees, with loosened tresses and streaming eyes, and the rest of them standing over her with spikes and goads and red-hot irons, ready to come down on her if she refuses the tipsy duke. The simple truth is that they made a fuss about her milliner’s bill or refused her an opera-box.”
Newman looked from Tristram to his wife with a certain mistrust in each direction. “Do you really mean,” he asked of Mrs. Tristram, “that your friend is being forced into an unhappy marriage?”
“I think it extremely probable. Those people are very capable of that sort of thing.”
“It is like something in a play,” said Newman; “that dark old house over there looks as if wicked things had been done in it, and might be done again.”
“They have a still darker old house in the country Madame de Cintré tells me, and there, during the summer this scheme must have been hatched.”
“Must have been; mind that!” said Tristram.