“Did you get my message?” asked Clovis.
“Yes,” he murmured, “but I knew it meant nothing.”
“Hush!” she replied. “I want your good opinion, and I’ll have it yet!”
Her lips closed tightly as she looked at him.
“You know that I am a poor man, Clovis—you know that when Monday morning comes I will be either richer by many thousands or ruined. What will you have? A diamond horse-shoe or a worthless kiss?”
“Neither!” said the woman. “I desire more—your name!”
The man started back.
“That is impossible,” he said under his breath.
He started again, for a little bell sounded in his ears—a little silver tinkle that must have come through the carriage as the women drove off.
Would he never hear from the distant lawyer who had his case in hand? As secretly as possible he was conducting it. Gwendoline knew so little, her mother more, perhaps, of his affairs. On what grounds did he work? That his wife was untrue? No! That they could not live together in peace? No! What then? Only this: she had left him and asked for release. One year! Perhaps it would come!