“How can you ask such a question, Finette? Surely you know I love him more than life itself. If I lose him I shall die.”
Finette looked with polite cynicism at the burning dark eyes in the marble-white face. She did not believe that any one was likely to die for love. She had read Shakespeare:
“Men have died and worms have eaten them,
But not for love.”
“But, then, what can you do with that silly boy?” she said, curtly.
“That is for you to tell me. I depend upon you, Finette, to help me, you are so worldly wise, so clever. Oh, try to keep him from getting a divorce, and I will make you rich, Finette!”
“If madame would take my advice she would jump at the divorce from that proud and silly boy—she would marry the nobleman,” insinuatingly.
“Finette, you are stupid, you are ridiculous! Do I not tell you I adore Norman de Vere? I want you to help me regain his love and ward off a divorce, not to advise me to marry some one else!” Camille cried, stamping her dainty foot in sudden fury.
Finette smiled a little contemptuously, but with a few well-chosen words she smoothed the beauty’s ruffled feathers, and inspired her with some degree of hope.
“Now, let me do up your hair, and I will try to think how I can help you,” she said.