She pauses meaningly. He seizes her by the arm.
"Don't drive me desperate. You know I cannot give you up. You shall not—must not go. I have a hold on Lauraine. She is afraid. There is all that about—Keith."
Lady Jean shakes off his hand and laughs mockingly. "About Keith! Pshaw! They were too wise for us, mon ami. Don't fancy you can do anything there. Of course they were in love—every one knows that; but I doubt if you have a handle for a 'case,' if that is what you mean. And if Lauraine were afraid of you, would she have written—this?"
She stands before him—that letter in her hand, and all that is worst in her whole nature roused and stung by the justice that she deems an insult. Sir Francis is quite at a loss. That Lauraine has so coolly disregarded his threats seems to augur her own fearlessness and her own innocence. He feels an involuntary respect for her despite his anger and the fury of baffled schemes. It had never occurred to him that she would be brave enough to act thus. She has openly defied him, and that defiance rouses in him a longing for vengeance—a hatred of the purity of principle that has been tempted and yet stood firm—that in the weakness of a woman's nature had been strong as never was his manhood; that confronts him now unshamed and undaunted, and ready to bear the cost of the most terrible vengeance that could present itself to a woman of Lauraine's nature.
"Would she?" persists Lady Jean, enraged at his silence. "Afraid!—she is fearless enough, trust her. She has been too clever for us both, and there remains nothing for it but to make the best of it. I will have no scene, no scandal. I leave your house to-morrow, and never again do I set foot in it, or receive you."
"And you think I will suffer this?" cries Sir Francis. "That I am going to part from a woman I love for the sake of one I hate?"
"I think you cannot help yourself," answers Lady Jean coolly. "I mean what I have said. Now—go. I don't want to create further scandal, and your presence here at this time is somewhat singular, to say the least."
"Jean, do not drive me mad!" cried Sir Francis desperately. "You are clever, keen of wit. Surely you can devise some plan by which we can defeat her? It is humiliating, unbearable to be baffled like this."
"She has seen through our scheme; she is prepared," scoffs Lady Jean. "Don't praise me for keen wits or cleverness, mon ami; you can admire them more safely as exemplified by your wife! Now—will you go?"
"Not unless you tell me when I am to see you again."