"Who is that woman?" she demanded.
Lucille did not wait for Le Breton to answer.
One glance at him told her everything. On his face were concern, love, and annoyance; the look that comes to a man's face when the girl he would make his wife and the woman who is his mistress by some unfortunate circumstance chance to meet.
Her star, never particularly bright, had waned and set within a week, all thanks to this slim girl in the yellow dress. Any day she, Lucille, might be shipped back to France, with only the emerald necklace to soothe her sore heart.
As things were she could lose nothing, and she might have the pleasure of parting Le Breton from the woman he really loved. The girl looked one who would countenance no backslidings.
Before he could say anything she said in a languid voice:
"My name is Lucille Lemesurier. I'm an actress. At Mr. Le Breton's invitation I came here with him from Paris, to stay until he tires of me or I of him. Comme vous voulez," she finished, with a shrug.
For a moment Pansy just stared at the truth confronting her: the truth, lazy, languid, and smiling, in white satin and emeralds.
There was a little noise, hard and sharp, like a shower of frozen tears rattling down on the table. The hands clinging to the string of amber beads clung just a thought too hard, for the necklace snapped suddenly. The beads poured down like tears—the tears Pansy herself was past shedding. The knowledge of Le Breton's treachery and deceit had turned her into ice.
She cast one look at him of utter contempt and scorn.