In after years, when John Dinsmore looked back at that moment, it always seemed like a memory of a hideous nightmare, standing there with Jess’ letter in his shaking hand; the letter in which she told him that she, his wife, had eloped with a former lover. In that hour the sympathy of Queenie seemed like balm to his bleeding heart.
“Mr. Dinsmore,” she said, in that sweet, smooth, silvery voice of hers, that had always had the power to thrill him to the heart’s core, “my heart is bleeding for you. What can I say, what can I do to comfort you?”
He sank into the nearest seat, covering his face with his shaking hands. Queenie advanced a step nearer, and her soft, white hands, cool and white as lily leaves, fell on his bowed head lightly.
“I know, I can understand how deeply your pride is wounded,” she went on, hurriedly. “But instead of wasting one thought over her, you should be rejoicing at getting rid of her so easily—remembering that her action sets you free from the bond which galled you, leaves you free to woo and wed one whom you can love. Do you not realize it?
“She was never a fit companion for you,” continued Queenie, eagerly; “you knew that. You should never have expected anything else from a girl such as she was—a wild, gypsyish creature, without even a name to face the world with. Of course she came from a source where her parents dared not own her, and one should not be surprised that she has developed evil tendencies; it is easy to surmise that they are bred in the bone, and she acted upon them at the first opportunity which presented. I predict that she will reach the lowest level that such a low-born creature——”
The sentence never was finished. With a bound John Dinsmore sprang to his feet, his face white as death, his eyes blazing like coals of fire.
“Stop, madam!” he cried, in a hoarse voice. “Not another word, I command you. Remember it is my wife whom you are reviling so cruelly!” and he towered before her, the incarnation of cold, stern, haughty anger.
For a moment only Queenie loses her self-possession, the next instant her face is wreathed in a cruel sneer, as she answers, defiantly:
“Am I mad, or do my ears deceive me? Are you really championing the cause of the girl who has betrayed you so shamefully? made your name, of which you were so proud, a byword for the sensational press when they learn what has happened? Most men would resent her action with all the pride in their natures, and despise her accordingly; being glad to be rid of such a——”
“Again I cry hold!” cut in John Dinsmore, in ringing, sonorous tones. “I will not hear another disparaging word of the girl who bears my name!”