"Go on. I don't mind," she laughed. "All that seems very far away now. I don't know whether or not he told you—I imagined he wouldn't—but I came to see you when I was down and out and—well, I got two thousand dollars from Mr. Dorning by a rather shabby trick. But I received a lot more from him than that, though he'll probably never know it. He's a wonderful man. I was in no mood then for being preached at though, but somehow he made me listen and he got over to me, without preaching at all, just where I was headed. He said that no woman had ever found real happiness in living on other people and that if I was any good and had any real love for the stage I would dig out on my own and try to get somewhere.
"When he handed over the two thousand dollars, he said that if I was wise, I would take it and use it to tide myself over while I tried to build a real career. What's more, he offered to send me more if I needed it and could prove I was honestly making an effort to succeed in my profession. That was real sportsmanship, wasn't it? I thought so. So I chucked the musical comedy business and caught on with a small stock company in Leeds. I studied day and night, I worked like a dog, and well, I'm a little way on the road to somewhere now."
"I'm glad, Sophie," he said honestly. "John's a prince. I know that too." He looked across the table into her grave blue eyes so intently that her eyes widened into questioning. Then she smiled understandingly.
"I know what you are thinking, Rodrigo," she said softly. "You are thinking that this is the first time you have ever been with me alone that you did not want to take me in your arms and kiss me. The first time that we could sit here comfortably as friends, without making love. I have been thinking the same thing. And it's true. I used to be an awful man-hunter. I used to think I wasn't living unless I was mad about some man—one or more. I remember that I could have killed you that night you left me in New York. But I have learned different. I have your friend, John Dorning, largely to thank for that."
When he left her at her apartment later, he felt that he had gained a friend.
A letter was handed him by the room clerk that night when he called at the desk of the hotel for his key. Rodrigo stared at the rectangle of white. In the corner was the neat, familiar name of Dorning and Son. The envelope bore his name, typewritten, was addressed to the Palace di Torriani, Naples, and contained scribblings on its face in pencil that had forwarded it to Paris and thence to London. Maria, he decided, had been the original recipient and had sent it to the address he had given her in Paris. He thrust the letter into his pocket and summoned the lift to take him to his room. He wanted to read this message in seclusion, for he had a foreboding of its importance. His original quaking thought that something had happened to John, he assured himself, was absurd. In that event, he felt, Mary would have cabled him.
He sank into a chair, lit a cigarette, and applied trembling fingers to the envelope.
Dear Rodrigo:
I do not know how firmly your mind is set by this time upon remaining in Europe. I do know that something unexpected has developed here that vitally affects you and John and all of us.
John is sure you will return soon and intends to tell you then. I am not so sure you are coming back, but I emphatically urge you, for your own sake, to do so, at least until you can learn of these developments from John's own lips. Return to Europe later if you like, but—come now.