"You might allow your husband to spare a little love to your money; you would be for killing him if he ever looked at another woman!"
"You mean I should be jealous?" asked Daphne, almost with violence. "You are quite right there. I should be very jealous. On that point I should 'find quarrel in a straw.'"
Her cheeks had flushed a passionate red. The eyes which she had inherited from her Spanish grandmother blazed above them. She had become suddenly a woman of Andalusia and the South, moved by certain primitive forces in the blood.
Madeleine Verrier held out her hands, smiling.
"Come here, little wild cat. I believe you are jealous of Elsie Maddison."
Daphne approached her slowly, and slowly dropped into a seat beside her friend, her eyes still fixed and splendid. But as she looked into them Madeleine Verrier saw them suddenly dimmed.
"Daphne! you are in love with him!"
The girl recovered herself, clenching her small hands. "If I am," she said resolutely, "it is strange how like the other thing it is! I don't know whether I shall speak to him to-night."
"To-night?" Mrs. Verrier looked a little puzzled.
"At the White House. You're going, of course."