The singer’s breath was coming in gasps now, and she clenched her hands together until they were bloodless and rigid.
“Why do you like this girl so much, Clayte?” she asked, tensely. “Is she so much handsomer than I, or does she sing so much better?”
“The public think she is handsomer,” said the man, evasively, “and you have read what the critics say about her voice.”
“But you, Clayte, what do you think?” was the woman’s eager answer; “what is there about her that makes you prefer her?”
Clayton Graham turned and looked the woman squarely in the eye.
“Her greatest charm is her modesty,” he said, slowly and clearly, “and she is attractive to me because she is a virtuous woman.”
If he had struck her with a lash the words could not have cut more deeply. The woman shrank away from him, her breath coming shorter and faster.
“That is like you, Clayte—to ruin a woman and then insult her!” she hissed between her teeth. “But beware, Clayton Graham. You had better not go too far! Carlotta has blood in her veins, real blood, that will avenge an insult. You may yet live to feel the power of a wronged and scorned woman.”
For answer the manager promptly turned his back upon her. The next moment she was alone amid the mocking emblems of mirth. The last vestige of self-control vanished as she fell upon the floor in a perfect frenzy of passion.
“Wait! Wait!” she muttered over and over, between her set teeth. “Just wait until Carlotta has gained her self-control, then look out, Clayte Graham and Marion Marlowe, for, innocent though you are, I shall not spare you! I shall have my revenge! Aye, and it shall be a grand one! Leave a scorned woman alone for plotting vengeance! I shall play my cards most cleverly, but each play shall tell. They shall find me no weakling in the game of love and jealousy!”