Both women were dry-eyed as they embraced. Belle showed signs of fatigue, so Selene made her comfortable on the divan.
"Shall I ring for tea, Belle?" The other nodded. Then she burst forth: "And to think, Selene, to think that we should be the unlucky victims. To think that my dearest friend should be the wife of my husband." She began to laugh. Selene would not smile. The tea was brought by a man-servant, who did not lift his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched when he turned his back. Belle sipping the hot, comforting drink looked about her curiously. The apartment reflected unity of taste. It was rather low, and long, the ceiling panelled and covered with dull gilt arabesques. The walls were hung with soft material upon which were embroidered fugitive figures heavily powdered with gold dust. One wide window with a low sill covered the end of this room, and over the fireplace was swung a single painting, "The Rape of the Rhinegold," by a German master. The grand piano loaded with music occupied the lower part of the room and there were plenty of books in the cases. Belle reflected that Sig's taste was artistic and sighed at the recollection of her—of their—big, bare, uncanny house on the hill. Selene began:
"Belle, dear, I'm glad to see you, sorry to see you. The odious newspapers were the cause of your discovering the crime—don't stop me—the crime of that wretch downstairs—" Belle started. "I sha'n't mince words with you. Sig was a scamp, a gifted rascal; his singing and artistic love-making the cause of many a woman's downfall."
"Oh, then there are some more?" asked Belle, in a most interested voice.
"Yes, there are many more; but my dear girl, we mustn't become morbid and discuss the matter. I'm afraid what we are doing now is in rather bad taste, but I'm too fond of you, too fond of the girl I went to school with to quarrel because a bad man deceived us. I've been laying down the law to Val, Belle; we must not be present at the funeral. We've got to bury our headstrong husband and we both can see the last of him from the closed windows, but neither of us must be present. Now, don't shake your head! In this matter I'm determined; besides what would the newspapers say? One miserable sheet actually compared us to Brünnhilde and Gutrune because—oh, you know why!"
"When Sig left the opera-house," continued Belle, in a calm voice, "he always took a special train home and I suppose the railroad men gave the story to the reporters."
"Not always; excuse me, Belle," contradicted Selene, in her coldest manner; "the last time Sig sang 'Götterdämmerung' he returned here." Belle stood up and waved her teaspoon.
"Now, don't be ridiculous, Selene; this was not as much his home as ours in the mountains, and—"
"There is no necessity of becoming excited, Belle; he told me of his affair with you." Selene's blue eyes were opened very wide. The other woman began to blaze.
"Affair? Why, foolish child, I am his first wife—" "Common-law wife," interjected Selene. "His first, his legal wife, and I mean to test it in the courts. His property—" "You mean his debts, Belle," interrupted Selene, contemptuously. "Sig owes even for his Siegfried helmet. He gambled his money away. He played poker-dice when he wasn't singing Wagner, and flirted when he wasn't drunk."