Throughout the dragging hours of that night she tried [49] ]desperately to read into the embrace of the man who had taken her love, some interpretation other than the obvious. And suddenly it came to her that even granted he might possibly be willing to give her his name, it was impossible for her to accept it. He did not know Elizabeth Parsons—would not, if he did, evince the slightest interest in her. It was the Russian actress he adored, the woman she was not. If he wanted her and she dared to marry him, she would have to live day and night a lie she could not—and what was more, would not—carry through. In love she would have to be herself. Brilliant as was her Slav rendering of it on the stage, in life she was just an American girl who wanted to live it with all her soul. When he took Parsinova in his arms, he would be holding Lizzie Parsons. The sophisticated Russian lips against his would be giving him New England kisses. Well—not quite that! But one certainty she must face. To the man who had fallen in love with the Russian actress, the American girl would mean less than nothing. She hated her! In the confusion of her soul she did not know which hated the other more.
Had there been any doubt in her mind as to the hopelessness of her situation, Oswald Kane himself pounded the last nail in the coffin a few days later. A chatty little sheet given to imparting information about important people had got wind of Randolph’s devotion. It announced subtly that the walls the Russian actress had built up between herself and American men had evidently been shattered by one who heretofore had evinced but slight interest in the beauties of his own set. It hinted at their runs in his car out of New York and wondered [50] ]amiably whether he intended converting his bungalow up Westchester way into a dovecote.
The day it appeared on the news-stands Oswald Kane paid her an early visit. For the first time she saw him with his smooth exterior ruffled. It was a matinée day and she was having an eleven o’clock breakfast when he arrived. A note from Randolph asking why she had refused to see him the day before lay on the table beside her plate. She looked tired and her eyes needed no artificial shadows.
Kane came into the room, then turned and stared at the new furnishings.
“Do you like it?” she asked. “I’ve had it done over.”
“Why?”
“I thought it safe—in case any one should find me out and drop in.”
“Some one has found you out.” He handed her the society sheet, open at the pointed paragraph that concerned her.
“I should like to know,” he began, his mellow voice going sharp, “who the man is.”
She hastily slipped Randolph’s note into the pocket of her dress. “I should like to be able to tell you.”