“And she didn’t care for anyone else.” His coldness frightened the lie through her unwilling lips, but she went white as she uttered it.
Philip eyed her narrowly.
“I can’t see why you want my advice,” he said, dully.
Then, very suddenly: “Nancy, suppose there was a man who was rather poor, as things go nowadays, and who had once been very fond of a girl who had treated him pretty badly. And suppose there was a woman”—with swift jealousy Nancy remembered the engagement Philip had broken in order to dine with her that evening—“not a very young woman, who had shoals of money, as you say, who rouged a little, and helped nature along a little in several ways, and did a number of other things that you and I don’t exactly like, but who at heart was a very good sort—would you advise this man to marry her?”
“And he didn’t care for anyone else?” Nancy whispered.
“And he didn’t care for anyone else,” said Phil, steadily.
Nancy bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Oh, the mortification, the humiliation, of it all! She would have given a week out of her life to have been back home.
“Why, if he cared for no one else, I——” The words came with an effort. “Who is she, Phil?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment. Who is he, Nancy?” he asked, sternly.
“James Thornton—you’ve heard of him. Oh, what a pair of worldlings we are!” She pulled herself together with a supreme effort, and, raising her glass of red Hungarian wine to her lips, said lightly: “Here’s to my successor! May she forgive me for this one last evening!” Her hand trembled, and some of the wine splashed on her white waist.