"I don't know what you mean. I loved him for his noble character. I was proud of his love."
"That is not being in love, Vera. A woman who is in love does not care a jot for her lover's character. She loves him all the better, perhaps, because he is a scoundrel—the last of the last—the off-scouring. There were women in Rome who doted upon Cæsar Borgia; women who knew that he was a poisoner—take my word for it. You liked Provana because he was your first lover, and you were tired of a year in year out tête-à-tête with Grannie."
"You know nothing about it. If he were to lose his fortune to-morrow I think I should be rather glad. We could live in Italy. Poverty would bring us nearer together—as we were in our honeymoon year. We should have plenty to live upon with my settlement."
She rose and moved towards the door.
"It is nearly five, and there will be people coming," she said.
The door opened as she spoke, and Lady Susan Amphlett looked in.
"Aren't you coming, Vera? There is a mob already, and people want their tea. What are you two talking about, entre chien et loup? You look as weird as Mr. Symeon, Claude."
"We were talking of Symeon, when Vera began to worry about the people downstairs, who are not half so interesting."
"I should think not. Mr. Symeon is thrilling. To know him is like what it must have been to be intimate with Simon Forman or Dr. Dee. I would give worlds to belong to his society. It is quite the smart thing to do. The members give themselves no end of airs in a quiet way."