“‘Personal feelings do not enter into the diplomatic secret service,’” she quoted mockingly.
“Precisely,” he agreed, “We understand each other and the game.”
It served his purpose not to notice the mock in her tones. He very well understood what it imported and what prompted it. For the first time the tigress had disclosed her claws. Hitherto it was always the soft caress and the soothing purr—and when she wished, her caress could be very soft and her purr very soothing. He had assumed that there were claws, but she had hidden them from him; and what is ever hidden one after a time forgets. And she had some justification for her resentment. He admitted to himself that his attitude and manner had been such as might cause her to believe that she was more to him than an opponent in a game, that he was about to forgive her past, and to ask her to warrant only for the future. And he had a notion that she was prepared to warrant and to keep the warrant—even as she had done with the Duke of Lotzen. Now it was ended. He knew it.
And she knew it, too. One sight of Mrs. Clephane with him and she realized that he was lost to her: Mrs. Clephane had all her outward grace and beauty, but not her past. Her woman’s intuition had told her in the red-room of the Chateau; she knew absolutely when she saw his greeting to Mrs. Clephane in the corridor after her escape. She must go back to her Count de M——, her Cabinet Minister, and her Russian Grand Duke. The only two men she had ever cared for would have none of her, despite her beauty and her fascination. Dalberg ever had scorned her; Harleston had looked with favour, wavered, was about to yield, when another—outwardly her alter ego, save only in the colour of her hair—appeared and filched him from her. And whether Dalberg’s scorn or Harleston’s defection was the more humiliating, she did not know. Together they made a mocking and a desolation of her love and her life. And as she came to hate with a fierce hatred the Princess whom Dalberg loved, so with an even more bitter hatred she hated Mrs. Clephane who had won Harleston from her. For while with Dalberg she never had the slightest chance, and knew it perfectly, with Harleston there was the bitterness of blasted hopes as well as of defeat.
And Harleston, sitting there beside her, the perfume of her hair and garments heavy about him, read much that was in her thoughts; and some remorse smote him—a little of remorse, that is—and he would have said something in mitigation of her judgment. But a look at her—and the excuse was put aside and the subject ended before it was even begun. She was not one to accept excuses or to be proffered them, it were best to let the matter rest. Meanwhile, Mrs. Clephane must be warned of the danger confronting her.
He glanced again at her—and met her subtle smile.
“This Mrs. Clephane,” she remarked with quiet derision, “wherein is she different from the rest of us?”
“By ‘us’ you mean whom?” he asked.
“The women you have known.”
“And seen?”