She brushed and arranged the long, wavy red hair with deft fingers, her fertile French brain busy.
“You are sure, miladi, you have told me all the cause of disagreement?”
“Yes,” unblushingly.
“Monsieur will not believe you are innocent?”
“No; he is so furious with anger, so blinded with jealousy, he will not listen to one word.”
“And he will sue for a divorce on grounds of a guilty flirtation with milord?”
“Yes.”
“You will plead not guilty?”
“Of course.”
“Then you will file one counter-charge against votre mari—infidelity, of course, and cruel outrage, bringing dat child—dat illegitimate—under your roof, refusal to take it away, brutal disregard of your tender feelings,” Finette mused, softly; and there was silence for a few moments.