Mrs. Prothero was monopolized by Lady Clifton-Wyatt. Marie Louise could see that she herself was the theme of the talk, for Mrs. Prothero kept casting startled glances Marie-Louise-ward, and Lady Clifton-Wyatt glances of baleful stealth.
Marie Louise had proved often enough that she was no coward, but even the brave turn poltroon when they fight without a sense of justification. Her pride told her that she ought to cross over to Lady Clifton-Wyatt and demand that she speak up. But her sense of guilt robbed her of her courage. And that oath she had given to Mr. Verrinder without the least reluctance now loomed before her as the greatest mistake of her life. Her sword and shield were both in pawn.
She gave herself up for lost and had only one hope, that the men would not come in––especially that Ross Davidge would not come in in time to learn what Lady Clifton-Wyatt was so eager to publish. She gave Mrs. Prothero up for lost, too, and Polly. But she wanted to keep Ross Davidge fond of her.
Then in a lull Mrs. Prothero spoke up sharply:
“I simply can’t believe it, my dear. I don’t know that I ever saw a German spy, but that child is not one. I’d stake my life on it.”
“And now the avalanche!” thought Marie Louise.
The word “spy” was beginning to have more than an academic or fictional interest to Americans, and it caught the ear of every person present.
Mrs. Dyckman and Mme. Fargeton sat up as straight as their curves permitted and gasped:
“A German spy! Who? Where?”
Polly Widdicombe sprang to her feet and darted to Mrs. Prothero’s side.