Lena Fontaine clenched her small hands. What could she do?
“Come, come,” said Clementina. “Let us have a straight talk like sensible women, and put the pussy-cat aside, if we can. Sit down. Do. There’s only one point of dissension between us. You know very well what it is—there’s no use fencing. Give it up. Give up all idea of it and I’ll let you alone. Give it all up. You can see for yourself that I won’t let you do it.”
“It’s outrageous for you to speak to me like this,” said the other, half hysterically.
“I know it is,” said Clementina coolly. “I’m an outrageous woman. Been so all my life. To do an outrageous thing is only part of the day’s work. So I just say outrageously; give it up.”
Lena Fontaine fluttered a glance at the strong face and caught the magnetism of the black glittering eyes, and remained silent. She knew that she was no match for this vital creature. She was confronting overwhelming odds. The rough fishfag of Paris who could walk straight into the mould of a great lady and carry everything contemptuously before her suddenly impressed her with a paralysing sense of something uncanny, relentless, irresistible. She was less a woman than an implacable force. For the first time in her life of Hagardom, Lena Fontaine felt beaten. The nun’s face grew drawn and haggard. Fright replaced the allurement of her eyes. She said nothing, but twisted one gloved hand nervously in the other. She was at the mercy of the victor. There was silence for some moments. Then Clementina’s heart smote her. All this elaborate wheel to break a butterfly—a very naughty, sordid, frayed and empty little butterfly—but still a butterfly!
“My dear,” she said, at last very gently. “I know how hard life is on a lone and defenceless woman. I know you have many reasons to hate me for preventing you from making that life softer and sweeter. But perhaps, one of these days, you mayn’t hate me so much. I’m every infernal thing you like to call me, and when I’m interfered with I’m a devil. But at heart I’m a woman and a good sort. I won’t outrage you by saying such an idiot thing as ‘Let us be friends,’ when you’ve every rational desire to murder me; but I ask you to remember—and I’ve suffered enough not to be a silly fool going round saying serious things I don’t mean—I ask you to remember that if ever you want a woman to turn to, you can count on me. I’m a good bit older than you,” she added generously, “I’m thirty-six.”
“Oh, God!” cried the other, bursting into tears, “I’m thirty-seven.”
“Impossible,” said Clementina, in genuine amazement. “You look nothing like it.” She rose and touched the weeping woman’s shoulder. “Anyhow,” she said, “I’ve a certain amount of female horse-sense that might come in useful if you want it.”
Whereupon Clementina made her way straight through the throng to her hostess, and after a swift farewell left the garden-party.
The enemy was finally routed; the confession of age, a confession of defeat. The victory had been achieved much more easily than she had anticipated. When she went home she looked with a queer smile into one of the hanging wardrobes with which she had been obliged to furnish her bedroom so as to accommodate the prodigious quantity of new dresses. Why all the lavish expenditure, the feverish preparation, the many hours wasted at great dressmakers, modistes, and other vendors of frippery—why the hairdressers, the face specialists—why the exquisite torture of tight lacing—why the responsibility of valuable jewels, her mother’s, up till then safely stored at the bank—why the renting of the caravanserai at Moleham—why the revolution of her habits, her modes of expression, her very life—why, in short, such fantastic means to gain so simple an end? Was it worth it? Clementina slammed the wardrobe door and glanced at herself in the long mirror that was exposed. She saw a happy woman, and she laughed. It was worth it. She had gained infinitely more than a victory over a poor sister of no account. Sheila came running into the room.