"That is so—'cept when we marry dukes. But don't you fret, Miss Boundrish, there's a sight of things better worth knowing than that, you put your bottom dollar on it."
Agatha and Lady Seaton had in the meantime drawn Mrs. Boundrish into other talk, and the thin man had reminded them of an early promise to come to a private view of his sketches, in which project Miss Boundrish, who was within earshot, promptly included herself.
The American went off in another direction, and Ermengarde, unable to stir an inch without attracting attention, kept her eyes fiercely shut, so as to look asleep, till the footsteps died away. Then she rose and went round to the front of the terrace, where Agatha still sat among the flowers, with a fountain pen and a paper partially covered with cipher in her hand, but looking over the sunny amplitude of space to the sea.
She started at seeing Ermengarde, and seemed relieved when the latter told her she had been dozing behind the trellis, and had waked to hear the conversation. "For your part of which, thank you," she said, smiling. "No doubt I ought to have got away, but I hadn't wit or pluck enough," she added, sitting by Agatha, and laying her hand caressingly on her arm. "What that horrid cat said about popping jewellery was partly true. I sold the chain I got at the Carnival, and—a ring—and—h'm—I redeemed the ring only yesterday—there it is—and I hope nobody else will ever know what a fool I've been. The solid truth is, I should have had to go home to England at once if I hadn't got back those few louis I lost that afternoon—and I badly wanted to stay on."
"Did Mr. Mosson give you a wrinkle, or was it pure luck?" Agatha asked, warmed to the heart by this unwonted cordiality.
"Oh, pure luck."
"It's so beguiling—that first luck," Agatha sighed. "And then, when the luck goes, there's the necessity and hope of getting the losses back. The demon of chance sits there, I suppose, like a great spider, weaving, weaving his poison-webs, till the poor fly, caught and tangled hopelessly all round, can struggle no more. And people live on this—on these blighted lives, broken homes, shattered hearts, and widespread misery and despair! Have you seen the cathedral, Mrs. Allonby—that snow-white, brand-new, dazzling immensity of marble at Monaco, flaunting among the palms and pines and flowers, all built out of these cruel gains, these despairs and miseries and degradations? And that palace? Nearly all the palace is new, built out of Casino winnings, as you remember."
"Perhaps that's why it's so vulgar. You want to wipe it out of the picture—cathedral and palace, too, built of money."
"Not of money," she said, her eyes shining with a hard brilliance. "No, built of broken hearts—women's hearts, mothers' hearts, wives' hearts. Oh, to see the whole accursed monstrosity levelled to the ground! I cannot speak of it."
What did this sudden passion mean, Ermengarde wondered; then she remembered the "connexion by marriage," and was sorry for her.