It was a long letter, for in writing to the man she adored, Lisa let her pen run away with her. Nothing would ever induce her to marry Sefton, she told him; her heart was given to another; he knew who that other was, and that she could never change. Then came the warning of his danger. Sefton’s savage hatred. It was a letter he could under no circumstances show to his wife. And there she stood waiting for the letter to be shown her, raging with jealousy, the love which had made her so angelic in her self-abnegation now transformed into a fire that made her almost diabolical.
“Well! May I see her letter?”
“No, Eve. The letter is confidential. She asks nothing from me—except perhaps approval of the course she has taken. She has had an offer of marriage—an offer that most young women in her position would accept without a second thought.”
“And she has refused?” cried Eve, breathlessly.
“She has refused.”
“Because she loves some one else—some one who can’t marry her—but who can carry on an intrigue with her—an old intrigue—begun years ago. Some one whom she is trying to get into her net again. The net is spread—before my very eyes. That letter is to make an appointment.”
He tore the letter across and across, and dropped the pieces into his waste-paper basket.
“Your thought is as far from the truth as it is unworthy of you, Eve,” he said, with grave displeasure. “This young woman has never been more to me than I have told you. A woman in whom I was interested, chiefly because she was friendless.”
“Chiefly,” she cried, catching at the qualifying word; “and the other reason?”
“If there was another reason, it had nothing to do with love. Does that satisfy you?”