“It isn’t true!” she stormed, near to tears.
“But really, you must believe me. A knowledge of jewels is one of my hobbies: I know!”
She looked down in consternation at the exquisite trinkets he had condemned so bluntly. Then in a fit of temper she flung them from her with all her might, threw herself upon the chaise-longue, and wept passionately into its cushions. Then the young man proved himself tolerably instructed in the ways of womankind. He said nothing more, made no offer to comfort her by those futile and empty pats on the shoulder which are instinctive with man on such occasions, but simply sat him down and waited.
In time the tempest passed, Sofia sat up and dabbled her eyes with a web of lace and linen. Then she looked round with a tentative smile that was wholly captivating. She was one of those rare women who can afford to cry.
“It’s so humiliating!” she protested with racial ingenuousness—one of her most compelling charms. “But it’s ridiculous, too. I was so sure no one would ever know.”
“No one but an expert ever would, madame.”
“You see”—apparently she had forgotten that Lanyard was anything but a lifelong friend—“I needed money so badly, I had them reproduced and sold the originals.”
“Madame la princesse—if she will permit—commands my profound sympathy.”
“But,” she remembered, drying her eyes, “you called me an adventuress, too!”
“But,” he contended, gravely, “you had already called me the Lone Wolf.”