Mrs. Vansittart was studying her programme, and did not look up or display the slightest interest in what he was saying.
“Every event seems but to serve to strengthen our position,” went on Von Holzen, still half listening to the music. “Even the untimely death of Lord Ferriby—which might at first have appeared a contretemps. Cornish takes home the coffin by tonight's mail, I understand. Men may come, madame, and men may go—but we go on for ever. We are still prosperous—despite our friends. And Cornish is nonplussed. He does not know what to do next, and fate seems to be against him. He has no luck. We are manufacturing—day and night.”
“You are interested in Mr. Cornish,” observed Mrs. Vansittart, coolly; and she saw a sudden gleam in Von Holzen's eyes.
After all, the man had a passion over which his control was insecure—the last, the longest of the passions—hatred. He shrugged his shoulders.
“He has forced himself upon our notice—unnecessarily as the result has proved—only to find out that there is no stopping us.”
He could scarcely control his voice as he spoke of Cornish, and looked away as if fearing to show the expression of his eyes.
Mrs. Vansittart watched him with a cool little smile. Von Holzen had not come here to talk of Cornish. He had come on purpose to say something which he had not succeeded in saying yet, and she was not ignorant of this. She was going to make it as difficult as possible for him, so that when he at last said what he had come to say, she should know it, and perhaps divine his motives.
“Even now,” he continued, “we have succeeded beyond our expectations. We are rich men, so that madame—need delay no longer.” He turned and looked her straight in the eyes.
“I?” she inquired, with raised eyebrows. “Need delay no longer—in what?”
“In consummating the happiness of my partner, Percy Roden,” he was clever enough to say without being impertinent. “He—and his banking account—are really worth the attention of any lady.”