"I hope you will never know. If fact, you are never to know."
His earnestness startled her. When a man's dominant note is persiflage any touch of grave feeling is impressive. Vera was silent—and they sat opposite each other for a few moments, she watching the rise and fall of a blue flame in the heap of logs, he watching her face as the blue light flashed upon it for an instant and then left it dark.
It was a face worth watching. She had her mermaid look this evening, and her eyes—ordinarily dark grey—looked as green as her sea-water necklace.
"How is Provana?" he asked at last; an automatic question, indicating faintest interest in the answer.
"Oh, he is very well; but I am afraid he is worried. He stays longer in the City than he used to stay, and he is very grave and silent when we dine alone."
"What would you do if the great house of Provana were to go down like a scuttled ship? Would you stick to a bankrupt husband—renounce London and all its pomps and vanities—give up this wilderness of a house and all the splendid things in it?"
"Can you suppose the loss of money would change my feeling for him? If you can think that you must think I married him because he was rich."
"And didn't you?"
"I hate you for the question. When Mario asked me to be his wife I had not a thought of his wealth. I knew that he was a good man, and I was proud of his love."
"But you were not in love with him?"