"By all means talk to Carlita, Mr. Winthrop. It is really very kind of you. The next time you come I shall take special pains that she joins our game."
She did not look at Pierrepont, but he glanced toward her coolly, insouciantly, muttering mentally:
"The little fiend heard what I said. She is determined to ruin that girl, but I swear she shall not! Let us see who is stronger, my dear Jessica, you or I!"
But there was no man at the table apparently less interested than he. He shuffled with a dexterity that baffled most men, talking lightly of his stay in India and of Winthrop's narrow escape from the panther, to all appearances oblivious of the fact that Winthrop and Carlita had wandered from the room, she with her great dark eyes turned interestedly upon Winthrop, in earnest conversation with the language unintelligible to him.
"You are a stranger in New York, are you not?" Winthrop asked, as he threw himself into a chair beside her in the library, leaning toward her, a faint flush lifting the pallor of illness.
"Yes. We arrived this morning, and I have never been here before."
"Ah, there will be so much to see. The opera begins next week, and—"
"I am in mourning."
The voice was very soft, almost tremulous, and Winthrop started.