"Oh, yes. But you see I've got Miss Sheila just about where I want her. She's grateful enough for her food and the roof over her head and for the chance I'm giving her."
"Chance?" He laughed shortly. "Chance to do all your heavy work?"
"Why not say honest work? It's something new to her."
There was a brief, thunderous silence. Cosme's cigarette burned between his stiff fingers. "What do you mean?" he asked, hoarse with the effort of his self-control.
She looked at him sharply now. "Are you Paul Carey Hilliard's son—the son of Roxana Hilliard?" she asked. She pointed a finger at him.
"Yes," he answered with thin lips. His eyes narrowed. His face was all
Latin, all cruel.
"Well"—Miss Blake slid her hands reflectively back and forth on the bone arms of her chair. She had put down her work. "I was just thinking," she said slowly and kindly, "that the son of your mother would be rather extra careful in choosing the mother of his sons."
"I shall be very careful," he answered between the thin lips. "I am being careful."
She fell back with an air of relief. "Oh," she said, as though illuminated. "O-oh! I understand. Then it's all right. I didn't read your game."
His face caught fire at her apparent misunderstanding.