She sat down again in a transport, her cheeks reddening, her eyes dancing; poor soul! she was glad nowadays of the very crumbs of affection from Sim MacTaggart's table.
“I know you are going to say 'Yes' for to-morrow night, Sim,” said she triumphant. “Oh, you are my own darling! For that I'll forgive you everything.”
“There's to be no more nonsense of this kind, Kate,” said the Chamberlain. “We have been fools—I see that quite plainly—and I'm not going to carry it on any longer.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Mrs. Petullo, with the ring of metal in her accent and her eyes on fire. “Do you feel a great deal of remorse about it?”
“I do,” said he, wondering what she was to be at next.
“Poor man! I was aye sure your conscience would be the death of you some day. And it's to be the pretext for throwing over unhappy Kate Cameron, is it?”
“Not Kate Cameron—her I loved—but Mrs. Petullo.”
“Whom you only made-believe to? That is spoken like a true Highland gentleman, Sim. I'm to be dismissed with just that amount of politeness that will save my feelings. I thought you knew me better, Sim. I thought you could make a more plausible excuse than that for the dirty transaction when it had to be done, as they say it must be done some time with all who are in our position. As sure as death I prefer the old country style that's in the songs, where he laughs and rides away. But I'm no fool, Sim; what about Miss Milk-and-Water? Has she been hearing about me, I wonder, and finding fault with her new jo? The Lord help her if she trusts him as I did!”
“I want you to give me a chance, Kate,” said the Chamberlain desperately. Petullo and the Count were still intently talking; the tragedy was in the poor light of a guttering candle.
“A chance?” she repeated vaguely, her eyes in vacancy, a broken heart shown in the corners of her mouth, the sudden aging of her countenance.