Lucille had risen to her feet. Her glance flashed from one to the other.
"Mother," she said coldly, "what have you done? How can we now pay Mr. Howard?"
Madame made no reply, reserving her defence—as the lawyers have it—until a fitter occasion. This presented itself later in the evening when mother and daughter were alone. Indeed, the Vicomtesse went to Lucille's room for the purpose.
"Lucille," she said, "I wish you would trust Mr. Howard as entirely as I do."
"But no one trusts him," answered Lucille, and her slipper tapped the floor. "Alphonse does not believe that he is looking for the money at all. It was for his own ends that he dismissed Mr. Devar, who was so hurt that he has never appeared since. And you do not know how he treated Isabella."
"How did he treat Isabella?" asked Madame quietly, and seemed to attach some importance to the question.
"He—well, he ought to have married her."
"Why?" asked Madame.
"Oh—it is a long story, and Isabella has only told me parts of it. She dislikes him, and with good cause."
Madame stood with one arm resting on the mantelpiece, the firelight glowing on her black dress. Her clever speculative eyes were fixed on the smouldering logs of driftwood. Lucille was moving about the room, exhibiting by her manner that impatience which the mention of my name seemed ever to arouse.