“Adeline,” he said, pathetically, “I thought you still loved me.”
“What a fool you must be then,” said Adeline. She lived in a little out-of-the-way house, with a garden and a back entrance. No one was more accurately acquainted than Gerard with her periods of business or leisure.
“Better fool than knave,” replied Gerard, bitterly. “But don’t let’s go on like this. What I wanted to tell you is that our secret’s out. There.”
“I know,” said Adeline, nodding. She sat in her neat little tight-fitting dress in her neat little (tight-fitting) room, with her breakfast in front of her. It was all dainty and attractive. He had seen her sit thus many a time, while he lounged on the little chintz sofa.
“I told,” added Adeline, proudly, biting a stiff crust with her pearly teeth.
“You!” He sprang upright. “You lie!”
“Oh, of course,” she answered, “I was to sit and see you enjoy yourself, while I went to my ruin. I was to let you write letters to my advertisements and then bring other men to laugh at me.” Her voice grew suddenly fierce. “I hate you for that,” she cried, “for that most of all. I could kill you for that.”
“Good heavens! was one of those unlucky advertisements yours? I had nothing to do with answering them, I swear to you. I was only umpire. Why, surely, you’d have recognized my hand!”
“Humph,” said Adeline. “Well, I told.”
“It was a woman’s trick,” retorted Gerard. “But how did you find out, you little devil, about the Freule van Trossart, or about my—my—”