She had been awake most of the previous night, with jealous care studying the libretto Gillier had sold to Claude, which had been put into her hands by Mrs. Shiffney. At once she had recognized its unusual merit. She had in a high degree the faculty, possessed by many clever Frenchwomen, of detecting and appraising the value of a work of art. She was furious because Gillier's libretto had never been submitted to her husband; but she could not say all that was in her mind. She and Adelaide Shiffney had been frank with each other in the matter, and she had no intention of making any mistake because she was angry.
"We haven't much time to spare. Jacques has to get on with his new opera."
Gillier sat down on a chair with a certain cold and reluctant but definite politeness. His look and manner said: "I cannot, of course, leave this lady whom I hate."
"He is a great man now. I congratulate you on his success."
"Jacques was always a great man, but he didn't quite understand it."
"You enlightened him, madame."
"Exactly."
"That was very clever of you."
"It wasn't stupid. But I don't happen to be a stupid woman." Her yellow eyes narrowed.
"I know how to detect quality. And I suppose you do?"