"What right have you to have little doubt or much doubt about it?" exclaimed Miss Brewer, contemptuously; "and why do you try to palm off upon me the idle nonsense which senseless people consider it incumbent on them to utter? You do not know Paulina Durski—I do. She is a woman who never in her life cared for more than two things."
"And these two things are—"
"The excitement of the gaming-table, and the love of your worthless friend, Sir Reginald Eversleigh."
"Does she really love my friend?"
"She does. She loves him as few men deserve to be loved—and least of all that man. She loves him, although she knows that her affection is unreturned, unappreciated. For his sake she would sacrifice her own happiness, her own prosperity. Women are foolish creatures, Mr. Carrington, and you men do wisely when you despise them."
"I will not enter into the question of my friend's merits," said Victor; "but I know that Madame Durski has won the love of a man who is worthy of any woman's affection—a man who is rich, and can elevate her from her present—doubtful—position."
The Frenchman uttered these last words with a great appearance of restraint and hesitation.
"Say, miserable position," exclaimed Miss Brewer; "for Paulina Durski's position is the most degraded that a woman—whose life has been comparatively sinless—ever occupied."
"And every day its degradation will become more profound," said Victor.
"Unless Madame Durski follows my advice, she cannot long remain in
England. In her native city she has little to hope for. In Paris, her
name has acquired an evil odour. What, then, lies before her?"
"Ruin!" exclaimed Miss Brewer, abruptly; "starvation it may be. I know that our race is nearly run, Mr. Carrington. You need not trouble yourself to remind me of our misery."