‘If you are going to moralise, I can’t follow you. I should say, at a rough guess, those diamonds must be worth three thousand pounds.’
‘They are to be taken or left,’ said La Chicot, in French, with her careless shrug.
‘Where do you mean to keep them!’ inquired Desrolles. ‘If your husband were to see them, there would be a row. You must not leave them in his way.’
‘Pas si bête,’ replied La Chicot. ‘See here.’
She flung back the loose collar of her cashmere morning gown, and clasped the necklace round her throat. Then she drew the collar together again, and the diamonds were hidden.
‘I shall wear the necklace night and day till I make up my mind whether to keep it or not,’ she said. ‘Where I go the diamonds will go—nobody will see them—nobody will rob me of them while I am alive. What is the matter?’ she asked suddenly, startled by a passing distortion of Desrolles’ face.
‘Nothing. Only a spasm.’
‘I thought you were going to have a fit.’
‘I did feel queer for the moment. My old complaint.’
‘Ah, I thought as much. Have some brandy.’